


Puckurt 31 Texts From Last Night (January 2012)

by test_kard_girl



Series: Puckurt Texts From Last Night [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 21,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/test_kard_girl/pseuds/test_kard_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 31 Days of Puckurt Drabble Challenge was posted on the PucKurt Livejournal Comm biannually since Jan last year. I challenged myself to write 31 drabbles based from random prompts from the ever epic Texts From last Night website. Some people liked the results, so I'm posting the drabbles here for posterity, and hopefully to give you guys some giggles. Would love your feedback, I had a lot of fun writing these! </p><p>(For the sharp-eyed amongst you, you'll notice there are only 30 days here, while January has 31 days... I didn't cheat! Day 7 was originally days 7 & 8. I condensed here for brevity.)</p><p>I'll be adding June 2012 and January 2013 drabbles in time-- can't believe I've written over 90 of these!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (305) Is "incoherent" a legit goal to strive for tonight? Or should I stay sober enough to fuck who I can?

**(305) Is "incoherent" a legit goal to strive for tonight? Or should I stay sober enough to fuck who I can?**

Kurt doesn't open his eyes. The whole world is still doing pirouettes. Around and around and around and fucking _pirouettes_ , and Kurt was always a shitty dancer.

He squirms just slightly, and groans weakly at the seismic lurch his stomach gives.

"Mmmmm...noooo..." he clutches tighter to whatever warm thing he's currently curled around and very, very distantly realises it's someone else's leg.

Oh, hell. It's probably that curly haired, Definitely-not-Blaine guy. Inwardly, Kurt facepalms himself-- but even the imaginary movement makes him want to hurl.

He shifts again though, trying to detangle his legs, and is happily surprised to find he still has all his clothes on. Or at least, he assumes they're all his clothes; nothing feels like it cost less than a hundred dollars.

It's about then his fashion student spidey-sense kicks back in (blame it on the alcohol, 'kay?) and he notices that the lap his head's currently nestled in is very much denim-clad-- and not expensive denim either: soft, well-worn denim, and baggy in a way Kurt usually despises, except on really melancholy Thursday nights with ice-cream and fighting Rachel for the girl harmonies in Disney songs.

Definitely-Not-Blaine guy wasn't wearing denim, Kurt's brain reminds him cleverly; neither was actual Blaine (maybe there  _is_  a god), or many of Blaine's fellow Warblers (a couple of them had actually shown up in  _uniform_ , but Kurt's given up being offended by now; he's just resignedly disappointed).

Buoyed by this revelation, Kurt moves his head-- the beginnings of an attempt to get up and move that is almost instantly aborted.

He exhales unhappily through his teeth, hating the churning empty feeling in his stomach that comes from too much alcohol, not enough finger-food, and acting like a miserable single person who can't go to his ex-boyfriend's birthday party without getting all weepy.

Kurt nestles closer against the denim under his cheek, curling his drink-numb fingers tighter around whoever-it-is' knee. He breathes in the scent of the body he's snuggling against, and it's familiar and vaguely comforting, but he can't place it. Oh well. At least it's not  _Finn_.

Before being asleep, the last thing Kurt remembers is lying on his back in the hallway outside Blaine's bedroom, staring at the ceiling. The world was starting to spin then, but it was ok: he was still in the giggly-drunk stage and Puck was feeding him Jell-O shots.

Puck.  _Stupid_  Puck and his  _stupid_  arms; dragging him away from making out with hot, horny boys to sample lime-grape flavoured alcohol.

 _Stupid_  Puck.

Kurt buries his forehead against warm thigh, once again fighting the urge to throw-up. He clings to the other person's knee, hanging on like the alternative is getting tossed overboard.

Ugh. Moving is totally not worth the effort.

Unconsciousness is starting to seep in again, and Kurt almost sobs with relief. He inhales the calming scent of whoever he's cuddling and only vaguely tries to stop his brain from pretending whoever it is is his boyfriend.

 _Pathetic, Hummel; just pathetic_.

That voice sounds like Puck's too. Except, weirdly, Kurt kind of imagines his warm, calloused fingers stroking at the side of his neck as he says it: fond; amused.

He falls asleep to that (probably imagined) touch, and when he wakes up in the morning to those same fingers holding out a steaming hot cup of coffee, Kurt’s brain's too pickled to put two and two together. Puck tries not to care: he just grins crookedly and slumps down next to Hummel on the sofa like he hadn't been there most of the night and switches on morning TV, before that Definitely-Not-Blaine guy wakes up and tries to claims that spot for his own.


	2. (541) Someone get that fucking seahorse.

**(541) Someone get that fucking seahorse.**

 

Hunting down enough bootlace to fashion a functional lasso was an Amazing Race-worthy task in itself; so hunting down the bootlace, remembering how to tie a kickass Honda knot, sniffing out his prey  _and_  snagging it on the first try?-- Puck's pretty sure there should be shiny honours involved, or at least some free shit from Timelife.

But Kurt just stares at him balefully, keeping his stick-up-the-ass poise despite the loop of multi-coloured twine hanging limply around his shoulders.

"Puck." He questions shortly: "What the hell?"

Seeing the other boy's tight-lipped expression, Puck grins hugely, fanning himself with the make-believe cowboy hat he should totally be wearing right now.

"How else was I gonna capture a seahorse??" He explains gleefully, getting into his best cattle-wrangling stance and tugging his end of the string before the lasso loosens any further and his quarry can make a bolt for it.

Kurt blinks disbelievingly: "A  _what-now_?"

"A seahorse!" Puck repeats-- geez, he thought Hummel was  _smart_ \-- and yanks once, hard, so Kurt stumbles into Puck's personal space, captured arms flailing as much as they can so he doesn't land against Puck's chest.

"What the-- are you  _high_?" Kurt demands, and Puck can almost see the seahorsey spikes bristling all up and down Hummel's spine. Puck laughs cos,  _duh_ \-- isn't it obvious?

"Totally." He verifies, jerking his head towards Brittany's kitchen where he and Santana and Mike were had been breaking into Puck's supply of slightly-tampered baked goods. "But, see, like, Britt said you were a dolphin and I was like  _no_ , 'cos dolphins are all cute and playful and Brittany's probably a dolphin, whatever; but I'm a shark and you; you're totally a seahorse--"

"-- And is there any reason why everyone needs to be a sea creature?--"

"--'cos you're all small and delicate and, like,  _spiny_ , and shit--"

"--  _Spiny?!_ \--"

"-- and like, no offense, but I'm pretty sure your skin glows in the dark--"

Kurt exhales loudly, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, and starts trying to disentangle himself: "Ugh, Puck, you should donate your brain to medical science." He complains, and Puck marvels at the huffy whinnying noises coming from his lips. Do seahorses whinny?

"Oh, and y'know like when seahorses have kids?" Puck grabs for Kurt's elbow, remembering one of the best reasons he had for Kurt being a seahorse: "The  _dudes_  are the mommies! It's totally badass!"

For a minute Puck thinks he's done it, he's convinced him; 'cos for just a second Kurt stops struggling and simply stares at Puck, pouty seahorse lips half-parted, eyes big and round and disbelieving. Then, in one deft movement, he pulls the string over his head and flings it back at Puck's face, so it plops to the floor like a wet piece of spaghetti.

"Puckerman, I detest you." he says cooly, and spins on his heel.

"Oh no, wait, wait! Woah horsey!"

Puck grabs wildly for the other boy's retreating form, but Kurt's seahorsey fins make him way faster than Puck's stupid human legs, and Puck just succeeds in stubbing his toes hard against the sofa. Little neon sea-anemones burst in front of his eyes. "Duuude..." Puck groans, sliding down headfirst onto the soft expanse of sofa cushions.

He doesn't know what he said wrong. All he wants to do is ride that damn seahorse. 


	3. (724) I'm crawling naked around my room looking for my hairbrush. Just thought I'd put that image in your head.

**(724) I'm crawling naked around my room looking for my hairbrush. Just thought I'd put that image in your head.**  

The knocking is more instant and more  _insistent_  than he'd expected, but Kurt waits until that voice is hissing his name through the keyhole before he pads languorously over the door and, with a hasty precautionary check through the peephole, pulls it open:

"Thought you were going?"

Puck's eyes widen to almost comic proportions.

"Why the hell do you need a hairbrush?" He questions brusquely after a moment's stuttering, fingernails digging hard into the wooden frame of Kurt's hotel room door.

Kurt smirks, tilting his head just a little and for a split second reclaiming Puck's gaze from the firm pale line of his own naked thighs:

"Why do you  _think_?"

There's just the tiniest nervous glance down the hallway; then Puck surges forward, kissing Kurt bruisingly hard, hands curling tight in his hair, tangling and messing and making it spike up in all directions with such  _intent_  Kurt has to fight not to giggle.

"How 'bouts I come in there and help you look?" Puck offers, barely dislodging his teeth from Kurt's lower lip when they break for air.

"Mmmm..." Kurt raises a considering eyebrow, digging his thumbs under the waistband of Puck's jeans and tugging the other boy even closer against him. "I'd have to take your pants off." he informs him gravely. "Those are the rules."

Puck's grin is terrifyingly shark-like, before he pushes the two of them back over the threshold, kicking the door closed behind them:

"You're a fast learner Hummel..."


	4. (443) Please tell me I didn't pass out while we were having sex last night... and if so I am soooo sorry.

**(443) Please tell me I didn't pass out while we were having sex last night... and if so I am soooo sorry.**  

"Yo. Sleeping Beauty."

Puck would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the beet-red colour Kurt's face goes; or at least the part of it he can see between Hummel's locker door and the giant fuck-off pair of shades he's currently sporting. It doesn't make him feel a whole lot less pissed off though.

Kurt's long, pale fingers clench tighter around the edge of his locker.

"I thought we agreed you would stop naming me for Disney princesses?"

"What?"

" _Please_  stop shouting." Kurt whimpers, resting his forehead against the cool steel in front of him.

Puck crosses his arms. Kurt may look super-adorable when he's hungover, but Puck's totally not in the mood to be sympathetic.

"So, I'm just wonderin':" he starts "was there something I did you found  _particularly_  boring, or--"

"-- Puck, I told you I was sorry--"

"-- yeah, via  _text message_!" Puck slams Kurt's locker door for him and watches the other boy almost cry. "Total post-bang etiquette fail, dude."

"Oh I can hardly believe  _Noah Puckerman_  is lecturing me on coital niceties." Kurt snaps back. Puck throws up his hands:

"You  _fell asleep_  on me!"

"Technically--" Kurt jabs a finger in his face; then seems to stumble when he realises his next point has nothing in his favour  _at all_  "--I fell asleep  _under_  you..."

Puck continues glowering, and Kurt's screwed-up angry kitten face dissipates a bit. Slowly, with a sigh, he lowers his sunglasses down his nose and Puck can see he actually  _does_  look apologetic. Which is kind of a first for him, to be honest.

"Puck." He says, more quietly "I was drunk. I'm pretty sure--" he glances wryly down at himself "-- I still  _am_  drunk. And I'm both ashamed and regretful about that development and the resulting…  _unconscious_ … consequences…"

Despite himself, Puck allows himself a tiny snort of laughter at that. Dude just needs to learn to use less words. Kurt seems encouraged though, 'cos he smiles a bit in return.

"And honestly?" He adds, leaning in a bit: "You kinda wore me out the first three times. We don't all have your sex-shark stamina you know."

He does that laugh; the one that used to make Puck throw him in dumpsters, and Puck wonders briefly how and when his life become so fucked up and ridiculous.

"You're such a freak Hummel." Puck replies roughly; but he's kind of more hurt and embarrassed than mad now. Kurt, despite being drunk as a skunk, seems to notice, and he just nods resignedly because, yeah: they've had that conversation.

Then, shucking his bag further up his shoulder, Kurt reaches across and brushes his fingers briefly against the back of Puck's hand.

"How about..." He suggests carefully. “We just agree that I owe you?"

He lets that hang in the air for a moment; and Puck is almost nodding before he catches on and narrows his eyes at Kurt's innocent, hungover little face.

The sneaky bitch. The sneaky little sex-pixie. Puck has no idea how Hummel managed to manoeuvre this conversation into Puck agreeing to see him again, but he's pretty one hundred percent positive that that's where it's heading.

He glares, and Kurt's cheeks burn scarlet-- either at the proposition or at being found out, Puck isn't sure-- but the other boy just lifts his chin and holds Puck's gaze despite the fact he's still using the bank of lockers to keep him upright, and Puck remembers that underneath the prissy fairy-boy coating Kurt is actually  _pure evil_.

The hallway around them is mostly emptied; but Puck is still way more nervous than he should be when he makes his mind up and reaches across to take Kurt's sunglasses away from him and neatly, quickly, fit their lips together. He can tell by how Kurt's body goes entirely rigid against his that he really didn't expect it.

"Deal." Puck says gruffly when he pulls back, leaving Kurt staring wide-eyed at him:

"But this time, we're going for coffee first."


	5. (781) You can't wash away shame. (1-781) I can try.

**(781) You can't wash away shame.  
(1-781) I can try.**

Puck closes the door and kicks it the way he knows so the lock actually snaps into the frame and keeps his baby sister from walking in on him and freaking out. His mom will keep giving him disappointed looks when he gets out-- the only time he ever locks the bathroom door is when he's jacking off-- but hey, what the fuck's new there? Like she cares anyway.

He turns the shower on as high as it will go, and the water stutters then  _pounds_  down onto the enamel, leaping back off the floor like hailstones. He leaves the shower door open as it pours, and the steam shies away from the cold of the bathroom window and the cabinet and the toilet seat, and starts curling up in whispery fronds around Puck's face instead, clouding up his eyes as he strips down, dragging off his clothes and leaving them where they land on the floor.

He steps in just as the bathroom seems to fade into total heavenly whiteness around him, and swears loudly at the heat suddenly thundering against his skin.  _Fuck_ ; fuck, fuck,  _fuck_. Trying to keep breathing, Puck grits his teeth, leaning forward until his forehead connects dully with the damp, slippery tiled wall. Then he just stands there, and lets the water pummel him.

After what feels like hours (days) he squeezes out some salty-smelling shower-gel onto his hand and starts to scrub it into his skin, working it into a lather like he never normally bothers to, rubbing in hard circles till white bubbles froth and drip all down his torso. He skims soaped-up hands over his ass, his dick, his thighs, feeling relief as streams of blue-tinged water course down the inside of his legs to pool in foamy bubbles at his feet, building up around his ankles until he shifts his toes away from the plughole. He digs his fingernails into his scalp as he scrubs shampoo into every inch of his stubbly mohawk, not stopping even when it starts dripping over his eyebrows into his eyes, making them sting and burn and well with hot tears.

When there's nothing else to lather, he just stands, staring at the floor as water courses over his body, gasping everytime it seeps up his nose, watching the hot pink welts on his skin grow darker and darker as he waits for himself to be clean.

~

He flops back on his bed, ignoring the light-switch; ancient, hardly-worn bathrobe tied loosely around him. The house feels fucking freezing now, and Puck's kinda worried he might've peeled off a coupla layers of skin. He imagines himself wriggling out of them like a snake, leaving them on the bathroom floor for his mom to find and shake her head over later.   
  
In the dark he can see his phone flashing and, feeling weirdly mechanical-- like his brain's still sitting in the pink, pristine bedroom of some blonde, untouchable cheerleader-- he reaches across to turn it over.

It's Finn:

_Hey, quinn bailed wanna come over play halo??_

Puck thinks for ten seconds. Then he shucks on another pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and goes.   
  
He's a shameless bastard after all.


	6. (401) and when I screamed you came in my eye, I found out that everyone else in the room had only pretended to be sleeping.

**(401) and when I screamed you came in my eye, I found out that everyone else in the room had only pretended to be sleeping.**

"Oh god they're outside!" Mercedes crows, leaning up on her toes to get a better look. It's mostly dark out, but Finn and Puck's stumbling silhouettes are clearly visible zig-zagging between the street-lamps. 

There's a dull _thunk_ , which Mercedes assumes is Kurt's head meeting the edge of the sink: 

"This is the worst night of my entire life..." He mutters into the plughole. 

Mercedes throws him a thoroughly entertained glance: "...Uh, I dunno babe; it seemed to be going _pretty well_ from where I was sitting..." 

"Your mockery isn't helping." Kurt splutters, pulling his face out from under the stream of water long enough to jab an unamused finger at her. 

Mercedes cocks her head at him, smiling serenely: "You got semen in your hair." 

"Ugh." Kurt's face goes immediately back under the faucet. " _Ugh_ , oh god..." 

Mercedes snickers, turning back to the comedy gold outside the kitchen window. Her eyes widen a bit as Puck's admittedly well-built figure hops through another pool of light from the porch across the road. "You think Finn mighta let him put some pants on." She muses; then shrugs, leaning forward on her elbows to get a better view "Although, y'know: not complaining..." 

"Am I ok?" 

Mercedes turns around, and finds Kurt sporting the most pitiful angry expression she's ever seen. His bangs are dripping over his forehead, and the white of the eye Puck _targeted_ is an unhappy pink colour, the eyelashes glued together around it with what _she-hopes-to-god_ is only water. 

Mercedes tries very hard to sound caring and reasonable and _not giggle_. 

"Can you see?" 

Kurt scowls-- although it's kind of ruined by the rapid blinking in his left eye: 

"Well enough to kick Finn in the testes." He grumbles. 

"Aw lay off;" Mercedes grins "he's just being a protective big brother." 

Kurt snorts, rolling down the sleeves of the shirt he'd hurriedly pulled on when Finn had started screaming. "Apparently, the only protection I need is a pair of swim goggles." He reminds her dryly, pink flushing immediately back into his well-scrubbed cheekbones— and the two teenagers look at each other for a long moment before remembering Kurt's post-coital yelp of unbridled agony and collapsing in helpless laughter. 

After a few moments tearful giggling, Quinn wafts in from the lounge, sublimely wicked expression on her face. She doesn't look at all fazed by her two friends' hysterics. 

"Finn's just noticed Puck doesn't have any pants." she informs them contentedly, picking a stray grape from the fruit bowl. "He's trying to punch him with his eyes closed." 

"Sweet; let's see!" Mercedes chokes back the last of her giggles, following Quinn to the window and dragging her less-than-innocent boo after her, hopping up on the kitchen counter to get the best view. Sure enough, there's Puck, trying to take refuge behind a shrubbery; and there's Finn, wielding a tree branch. 

Mercedes feels Kurt lean his arms against the back of her shoulders: 

"So." He begins after a moment's unhidden ogling. "...Puck and I are dating." 

Mercedes winces as Finn's flailing tree branch connects with Puck's bare behind: 

"...Think maybe you should tell Finn that before he castrates him?" she suggests. 

"Mmm." Kurt sounds unconvinced. "Probably." 

Yeah ok: he most-likely _should_ feel more responsible for his boyfriend scampering butt-naked around the neighbourhood being pursued by an easily-angered giant. But somehow, just for now— Kurt's injured eye twitches maliciously— he can't really bring himself to mind.


	7. (703) Someone was playing Tic-Tac-Toe on my abs?

  
**(703) Someone was playing Tic-Tac-Toe on my abs?**

Puck wakes to the sound of giggling, and instantly thanks the Big Man Upstairs for giving Santana the balls to make up for all those years of denial by being pretty shameless about who else is in the room when she's sexing up her girlfriend.

He lies perfectly still, fuzzily noting that,  _ok_ , he passed out on the carpet instead of an actual bed. Whatever, it's deep pile: pretty comfy. Comfier than the sidewalk anyway. Or a bathtub.

Oh wow, a bathtub would be awesome.  _Soapy sexy lesbians_.

Yay, he's still drunk.

Despite the playing dead and all, Puck allows himself a little grin, trusting San and Britt to be too tied up in each other to notice ( _ooh, soapy sexy_  tied-up  _lesbians_ ). Vaguely, he wonders if they'll be too tied-up to notice his inevitable boner when the actions starts getting all scream-worthy... But it's right about then he feels someone's hands brush his stomach and  _shit_ \-- maybe they want him to join in??

Puck can't help it and cracks his eyes open, gathering all his strength to lift his head and focus blearily on whatever's going on at the other end of his torso.

It's not Brit and San.

It's Berry and Hummel, both looking totally shit-faced and wearing  _way_  less clothes than those two usually rock up in. Berry's lying on her stomach beside Puck, hair hanging over her face and tickling Puck's skin but not hiding the fact that her shirt's gone missing and she's wearing a bra with woodland animals all over it. Hummel's sitting on Puck's other side, cross-legged in sleep-shorts that are halfway to indecent, wearing the same silky shirt from earlier but with his bowtie hanging undone round his neck, what looks like a top-hat (wtf?), and a glare that could level a tower-block.

Puck winces again, and realises it's Berry's tiny little hands that've been doodling shapes across his abs.

"Ha! I win, I win!" she squeals, pointing smugly at Kurt across Puck's body, losing her balance a bit and steadying herself with a hand  _dangerously_  near Puck's crotch. Kurt gigglingly leans across to push at her shoulders:

"Shhh, you freaking cheat," he hisses "you cheat, you cheater, it was my turn--"

"What the fuck--?" Puck tries to push himself up to sitting, but Rachel throws out an arm and claps her hand over his eyes, forcing his head back down to the carpet with a thump.

"No, no, you can't wake up, don't wake up, I'm  _winning_!!" she babbles excitedly against his ear, and Puck does what she says cos well 1)  _it's Rachel_  and it's always easier that way, and 2) her boobs are, like, right next to his mouth.

Then he feels fingers on his abs again, drawing ticklish lines, and knows it must be Hummel.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Puck slurs, twisting his head to try and see, Rachel's hand slipping away from his eyes.

"Just playing." Kurt answers in a singsong and Rachel starts giggling again, going back to her place opposite him. "No need to worry Noah," Kurt continues airily: "you're not playing so we won't take anymore of your clothes off."

Puck processes that. "Anymore...?" and then, ok, sure: no shirt. He'd spilled beer on it earlier and taken it off. That's cool.

"What am I not playing?" He slurs, and lifts a hand to his abs, confused when his fingers touch something warm and sticky--

"Stop it, you'll ruin the board!!" Rachel snatches his hand away, doing a pouty face. Hummel cracks up, and reaches unsteadily down to take a swig from a champagne glass sitting on the floor near Puck's feet. "He's the board! He can't ruin it if he's it!" he mutters through his chuckles.

"What are you--?"

"Tic-Tac-Toe!" Kurt interrupts, raising his glass in the air.

"And I'm winning!" Rachel adds, smiling widely and, to Puck's surprise, leans down to kiss his nipple.

Puck gives up and lies flat back down on the floor, briefly closing his eyes.

"Man, you guys got crazy since college..." He mutters.

He doesn't add that he thinks it's kind of awesome.

 

After a moment, he feels fingers on him again, and Hummel's voice, thoughtful: "Best of... seven."

"You suck at losing." Rachel chastises gleefully, and Puck feels her finger draw a shaky nought on pack two of his six pack.

Kurt draws a slightly more steady cross on pack five. "You lose at sucking." he counters grumpily and Puck snorts:

"...That's what she said."

"Shhhh!" Kurt presses a finger hard against Puck's lips, and Puck is kinda surprised to find that it's covered in chocolate. Kurt takes that finger away  _way_  too fast.

Puck smacks his lips together. "Where'd chocolate come from?" he asks, feeling that chocolate would be really amazing right about now.

"Fondue." Kurt supplies vaguely, and Puck's sluggish, inebriated brain finally figures out that Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel are playing strip Tic-Tac-Toe in chocolate fondue on his abs.

" _Duuuude…_ " is all he can really think of to say.

He lays back again, still kind of upset at the no-lesbian thing, but thinking this is going to be some really epic blackmail shit in the morning.

And actually, the fingers tracing across his abs feel really, really awesome.

"Mmm.." Puck leans his head back and closes his eyes again, trying to tune out Berry and Hummel's snarking and just concentrate on their soft, ticklish doodling.

It all goes kind of silent for a while, punctuated only by the occasional clink of glass or Rachel making exaggerated thinking noises. Puck tries to keep track of who's touching him, but actually, their hands are just as soft as each other's and hey, what does it matter? It's just Tic-Tac-Toe.  _Nerds, not lesbians_ , Puck reminds himself sternly.

"Your turn." He hears Rachel offer eventually, smugly, and there's an ominous silence from Kurt's side of his body. Curious, Puck wrenches an eye open, and lifts his head enough to see that Hummel has lost his top hat, and instead has a really wicked expression on his face.

Then, all at once, the boy's head ducks out of view, and Puck shudders at the sensation of a hot wet tongue licking a clean stripe across his body.

"Oh!" Rachel shrieks, outraged. "Not allowed!  _Entirely_  not allowed!"

"Yummy." Is Kurt's eloquent response, as he sits up again, smugly licking his lips.

For a moment, Rachel looks like she might explode with the unfairness of it all: then, super-fast, she dips her fingers in the fondue pot and pushes them through Kurt's hair.

"YOU BITCH!" Kurt screams, making Puck's ears bleed; and then it's all out chocolate  _war_ , as the two inebriated gleeks attack each other with fondue across the No-Man's Land of Puck's torso.

He'd try and get out of the way; but it's totally not worth it and this is entertaining as  _fuck_.

It ends when they're out of fondue, Kurt pinning Rachel to Puck's abs and both of them giggling uncontrollably.

Puck just stares at his two chocolate-smeared friends.

He has no idea why, but this is all of a sudden  _so much hotter_  than lesbians.

He levers himself up on an elbow:

"You should totes make out now." He suggests slowly, kind of spellbound.

Kurt and Rachel just swivel their heads and stare back at him, like he's insane. Then— all at once— Kurt leans up Puck's bare chest and captures Puck's drink-numb lips with his own.

_...Oh god, he tastes like_  chocolate.

"Mmm--" Puck grabs the back of Kurt's hair, dragging him up closer, and Kurt unhesitatingly swings a leg over Puck's thigh and presses their bodies together, trembling with giggles.

He's not giggling for long though: fuck's  _sake_... Puck sucks the sweet brown sugary goodness from Kurt's tongue, bucking his hips as, moaning breathily, Kurt scrambles to get a better angle, smearing Rachel's impeccably drawn Tic-Tac-Toe board irreparably between their bodies.

Distantly, Puck thinks he hears her, sulking: "But I was  _winning_..."

...Then he's distracted by remembering how fucking  _short_  Kurt's short-shorts are as the other boy grinds down against Puck's hard-on, and how  _he's getting some and it's chocolate-flavoured_  and nah, sorry Rach: Puck's  _totally_ winning this round.

 

 


	8. (616) This guy needs to come out. I can feel him sucking my dick from across the room.

**(616) This guy needs to come out. I can feel him sucking my dick from across the room.**

Kurt chuckles to himself as he clicks ‘send’. He's slightly ashamed of the inevitable forthrightness that drinking too much fruit-flavoured alcohol brings out in him, but Blaine's a good wingman: he understands Kurt's weakness for cherry coke and vodka.

He turns back from the bar, grabs the straw of his drink between his teeth (it takes a few attempts), tilts his head, and settles his eyes once again on the guy on the other side of the dancefloor.

He's sitting kind of side-on to the bar, so Kurt can really only make out about half a profile: a strong jaw, clean-shaven; full, gorgeous,  _suckable_  lips; dark, smoky eyes that every now and again seem to wander away from the pair of Kardashian lookalikes he's sitting with and examine instead the full range of New York pretty boys clogging up the dancefloor.

Once or twice-- and of this Kurt's almost entirely sure-- he's looked directly at  _him_. And if Kurt isn't the poster-boy for gay stereotypes, he doesn't know who is.

His phone makes the Tinkerbell sprinkle noise that Blaine picked as his personalised text alert, and Kurt snorts into his drink as he flicks the screen on:

**Well try nt to make a mess of those pants. Dn't think we'd be able to get u out of them if they were wet ;) Bx**

Okay; Blaine might put up a bit of a fight for gay of the year.

Kurt locks the screen and shoves his phone back into his pocket, and it takes him a second or two to realise-- as his eyes re-adjust to the multi-coloured haze of the club around him-- that Closeted Hot Guy has left his seat on the other side of the room is currently weaving his way across the dancefloor straight towards him.

"Shit." Kurt spins round, hissing under his breath. "Shit shit shit..."

"Hey Alex. How about another Jack and Coke?" A voice says, just a little bit of a slur at the edges, as that big, warm body Kurt was so admiring sets his elbows down on the bar next to him. Kurt's knuckles turn white around his glass— it is so _him_  to start leering at big, muscly straight guys who are totally capable of pummelling him into toothpaste.

The bartender—Alex—grins, but pours a measure of Jack anyway:

"What's that Puckerman, number five? Aren't  _you_  supposed to be getting  _them_  drunk?--"

"-- _Puck?_ "

Kurt can't help himself and whirls round, blurting out the name of his former teammate before his ever-so-slightly tipsy brain can stop him.

Sure enough, It's Noah Puckerman who's sprawling languorously against the bar next to him, last seen hitting the highway for LA after graduation and only occasionally texting Finn to assure him he's not dead and hasn't knocked up any movie stars yet. Kurt had never thought to lay eyes on him again, or at least until the inevitable Finchel wedding (which is currently on hold until a break in Rachel's Broadway schedule).

He looks  _good_.

"Hummel?" Puck screws up his forehead, like  _he's_  the one who's being sideswiped by karma right now. "No way!" and he catches Kurt up in one of those big football-player bear-hugs that Kurt has never had the desire to partake in. "How weird is this?"

It feels far too familiar as Kurt fights to disentangle himself from Puck's grip, suddenly horribly aware of how much eyeliner he's wearing and how very  _tight_  his pants are.

"Haha, yes," he tries to laugh in response " _'Of all the gin-joints, in all the towns, in all the world'_ , right?"

Puck's grin falters a bit and Kurt inwardly slaps himself across the face.  _Does he look like he knows_  Casablanca?  _Be cool, Hummel._

"So, wow, this is unexpected." He tries instead, mirroring Puck's casual elbow against the bar "...How long have you been in New York?"

 Puck brightens again and looks genuinely pleased to be asked, which is kind of... strange.

"Coupla days." He says, shrugging like it's no big deal. "I have a gig on Tuesday. Just a small club, but..."

"...Oh wow, that sounds great." Kurt smiles, hoping Puck doesn't notice how his voice has gone super-high. Probably something to do with Puck's big muscular body being  _right there_ , and the knowledge that Kurt's been needlessly perving over him for the last forty-five minutes or so thanks to his entirely  _deficient_  gaydar.

Puck looks vaguely proud of himself, which, actually, is also kind of a change from high school. "Well, yeah... Anyway, what's up with you? How've you been? You here with anyone?"

"Oh um, yes, I am," Kurt feels his cheeks flush a bit, needlessly "Blaine. You remember?--"

Puck takes his drink from the bartender "Oh, sure... So are you guys still--?"

"--Oh god no." Kurt assures him, "We're just.. friends. Just friends. He's fun to go out with."

Wow, did that ever sound lame.

Understandably, Puck gives him an odd look for a second, before reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

"Cool, well, awesome. Hey, do you want a drink?" he gestures at the barman, but Kurt waves him away again, pointing at his cocktail.

"It's fine I've got this one… Don't you have, um,  _friends_  to be getting back to anyway?" He glances over at the table with two voluptuous brunettes, and Puck shrugs, taking a long slug of his Jack and Coke.

"Ah, it's cool, they won't miss me."

He must notice the quizzical look that passes briefly over Kurt's face, because Puck grins and turns around to lean his elbows back against the bar:

"Lesbians." he divulges with a bit of a sigh. "Everywhere I go; freaking lesbians."

Kurt blinks. He really doesn't know what do with that.

"Oookay..."

"It's cool." Puck shrugs. "I'm kind of more into guys these days now anyways--"

Kurt spits his cocktail all over the floor.

"Hey babe..." Blaine bounces up, back from his nicotine hit, and looks immediately concerned. "You ok?" He thumps Kurt once on the back to stop him choking, and Kurt just has time to give him a warning glare before Puck clears his throat:

"Yo. "

"--Noah!" Blaine's eyes go all wide. "Wow! It's been, like, forever..." he leans around Kurt to shake Puck's hand, and Kurt notes, despite himself, how Puck makes no move to hug  _him_.

"What a weird coincidence!" Blaine says, catching Kurt's eye, and Kurt tries desperately to tap into whatever psychic linked they forged while they were dating and tell him to  _not mention anything about hot supposedly-straight guys with eminently cock-sucking lips_.

"So where'd your toyboy go?" Blaine asks, grinning conspiratorially as his eyes search the dancefloor.

_Ugh. Never mind._

"Ooh, Hummel's got his eye on someone?" Puck teases, matching Blaine's grin, and Kurt could melt into the floor from horror:

"Oh no, no-one, Blaine's just kidding--"

"-- He has a thing for football player types." Blaine divulges brightly (as if it's a  _secret_ ) "-- One of the reasons we broke up, right babe?" He frowns across the room at the table where Puck had last been sitting. "Hey, so, where'd he go?"

Kurt scrabbles for any words that might make this situation stop happening: "Oh, um, I dunno, he left, I think he left--"

"Oh that sucks." Blaine looks commiserating, and catches Puck's eye: "You should've seen some of the texts he was sending me...And I remember when Kurt Hummel was all sweet and innocent..."

"Yes, the loss of my innocense is a terrible shame." Kurt interjects loudly "Wow, isn't it late? Blaine, we should probably go..."

"Although he was here with girls, right?" Blaine continues, frowning at the back of the room. "Was it not those two back there?"

He points, and Kurt feels himself slowly die inside.

"Back there?" Puck repeats, following Blaine's gaze, and Kurt wants to cry.

"Yeah." Blaine confirms. "Big guy, dark hair, black shirt  _totally_  showing off his arms..."

He trails off, suddenly realising the significance of Kurt's high-intensity death-glare and Noah Puckerman standing behind him looking way hotter than any straight guy has any right to in a black shirt that is  _totally_  showing off his arms.

"Ohhh..." Blaine says slowly, looking between them. "Oh god. Um...."

Then, five years of friendship fly out the window:

"This is the best thing to  _ever_  happen."

Puck cracks up laughing, guffawing into Kurt's ear, and, mortified, Kurt tries to drill holes through Blaine's skull with his eyes:

 _"I hate you."_  He hisses, with the accompanying American Sign Language in case Blaine doesn't get it:  _"There is no coming back from this. You are_  dead  _to me..."_

"Ha! I knew you were giving me the bedroom eyes!" Puck crows. "Why the hell do you think I came over here?" He claps a hand to Kurt's shoulder and Kurt, blushing furiously, curls up against the bar and hides his face in his arms. After a moment high-fiving Blaine, Puck, still laughing, tightens his own big hot, muscly arm around Kurt's shoulders:

"Do you want that drink now?"

"Oh god, please." Kurt whimpers.

He hears Puck order him another cherry vodka, and the rattle of glass and ice beside his ear as the bartender throws the ingredients together. After a moment, he feels another (stronger) shoulder nudge his.

"Chill out Kurt." Puck's voice says, and it's quieter this time, so Kurt cracks an eye open. Puck pushes his drink towards him. "If I minded you checking me out I probably wouldn't have come over here."

At that, Kurt opens both his eyes, gaping a little despite himself.

"You, um..." He tries to stop blushing quite so obviously. "You knew it was me?"

Puck shrugs: "I knew it was the hot gay dude at the bar with the spray-on pants and ridiculous hair." He raises an eyebrow, considering: "...Yeah, I shoulda probably known it was you."

Kurt stares. "I wouldn't... If I'd recognised you I wouldn't..."

"Whatever." Puck looks down at the bar again, and for one earth-shattering moment Kurt thinks he might be a bit hurt.

He's just about to offer some kind of lack-lustre apology when Puck glances up again, looking unusually calculating:

"So:" he says "you were checking me out, and I bought you a drink... How do your nights usually go from here?"

Very slowly, Kurt pulls his head out of his arms.

"Excuse me?"

"Cos usually, with me, I think there'd be more dancing." Puck grins. Then he jerks his head towards the floor. "Wanna come dance with me?"

"You're kidding." Kurt says immediately.

"Well what were you staring at me for then?" Puck counters. "Or do I have to go check Warbler-boy's text messages?"

For a long moment, Kurt's eyes widen enough to match the diameter of some small planets. Then, he hops off his stool and grabs Puck's hand, dragging him out onto the dancefloor:

"I  _love_  this song..."


	9. (615): That's your penis' name. I've always referred to it as Alejandro secretly.

**(615): That's your penis' name. I've always referred to it as Alejandro secretly.**

Kurt gives it fifteen minutes (about how long he thinks it would take to smoke the hypothetical cigarette) before he begins to gather his stuff back together: re-quiff his hair into something vaguely resembling a purposeful style; do up all the laces on his boots.

The aim is to look at least  _vaguely_  put-together when he walks past Puck's mom in the kitchen-- they  _were_  meant to have been ‘studying history’ after all.

Puck never sees him to the door-- because then there would have to be small talk and wry, awkward glances and Kurt will absolutely,  _absolutely_  not let that happen. He simply lets himself out, and walks to his car with his head held high, although the cold November air rips the breath out of his lungs and swipes at his eyes until they water and makes him feel dirty and sweaty and far,  _far_  too hot inside all his layers.

He plugs his ipod back in before he even starts the engine, breathing a tiny sigh of relief when the familiar beats start up again, right where he left them. He cranks the heater up, humming along as he drives, glad of the distraction.

_She's not broken, she's just a baby/ but her boyfriend's like a dad, just like a dad_

He's trembling, just a little bit; has to grip the steering wheel extra-tightly not to wobble all over the road. His phone's flashing an alert in the passenger seat, but he won't check it until he's home; until he's had a shower and said goodnight to his dad and Carole and maybe watched an episode of or two of something unforgivably trashy, just to get himself earthed again. At this point, Finn's far too wrapped up in his own teen adultery drama to notice the same sick/triumphant gleam reflected in Kurt's eyes when he comes home late every Tuesday night.

Kurt snorts, a broken little half-manic laugh. Maybe they should form a club or something; another club. Less about music; more about sabotaging healthy relationships.

_You know that I love you boy/ hot like Mexico, rejoice_

Kurt's singing the words before he realises, and when he does, they seem to catch in his throat, ice flooding his stomach.

The worst thing is that he thinks Puck might  _actually_  be in love with him; that  _he_  may actually be in love with Puck.

But god; doesn't it sound ridiculous when he says it?

If he can just keep pretending it's only sex for a little while longer; pretend like the kisses mean nothing and that he doesn't give himself those fifteen minutes with a warm body and a hypothetical cigarette… Maybe then he can stay in a relationship that actually  _has_  a future; that is nice and safe and won't end in a flaming ball of shit and badness. Kurt is about eight hundred percent positive he can't deal with much more shit and badness in his life right now.

_At this point I gotta choose/ nothing to lose._

He sits in his car in the driveway for a long moment before he goes inside, his breath steaming up the windshield, listening to Navigator settle and cool around him as his iPod plays on.

_Don't call my name/ don't call my name, Alejandro_

He turns his phone over and glances at the screen: Blaine's messages are still sitting there, all perky and hopeful, but Kurt ignores them and flips to his contacts list instead.

_Don't wanna kiss, don't wanna touch/ just smoke my cigarette and hush_

He does it with a brittle little smile on his face: typing over Puck's name with the fictional one that's ringing in his ears.

_Alejandro, Alejando_   
_Ale-ale-jandro, Ale-ale-jandro_

Maybe that'll help him remember what he's dealing with here.

_Stop, please, just let me go/ Alejandro, just let me go._


	10. (717): Man, only now that I'm single is it painfully obvious that I have zero booty calls in waiting. This could be a cold winter.

**(717): Man, only now that I'm single is it painfully obvious that I have zero booty calls in waiting. This could be a cold winter.**

Puck's brain kind of stumbles back into consciousness, helped along by the big feck-off crick in his spine and toes that are so freakin' cold he thinks they might not actually be attached to his feet anymore.

"Uhhh..." He groans, dragging his legs stiffly back under the comforter that seems to have mysteriously appeared on top of him since the last time he was awake. He has a pillow smooshed under his head too, both smelling vaguely like lilac or some other girly shit, and it takes him a few more bleary seconds to realise, yeah, he  _is_  still in the Hudmel's living room; just in the dark, with the tv and the Christmas tree flickering spooky lights across the hazy, hulking shapes of the furniture, and only Hummel left, curled up in a recliner a couple of metres away that Puck's pretty sure used to belong to Finn's dad.

Inside his head, Puck groans: of all the people to be stuck in a room with. He turns his face back into his pillow, intending just to go back to sleep, and pretend he’s never been awake at all-- he's been feeling that quite alot lately; that it's easier just to go back to sleep-- but then, for some reason, his blurry, sleep-encrusted gaze finds the window, half masked behind thick winter curtains, and the soft drift of snowflakes slowly building on the ledge there, and the sudden tickle of little-boy excitement forces him properly awake.

_Crap._

"...Yo," Puck says, voice raspy: "Kurt--"

Puck hears a gasp, and the faint clink of ceramic:

"-- _Jeez_ , don't scare me like that!" the other boy hisses, and Puck smirks, feeling a tiny, gleeful echo of that rush he used to get whenever his slushy found it's mark on a particularly pretty, pristine jacket.

"Sorry." He says-- but he doesn't mean it, 'cos Hummel's bitch-face is  _way_  too amusing. He pokes his head a little further above the edge of the comforter and almost instantly regrets it:  _fuck_ , it's cold.

"Where's everyone else gone?" He asks, and Kurt shoots a glare at him like he's a grade A moron:

"It's four in the morning Puck.” He drawls “They went home."

Puck blinks.  _Bitches_. He feels stupidly annoyed that out of the eleven other people at the party no-one cared enough to wake him up and say goodnight.

"Then why the hell you still up?" He grumps, wishing he had another sweater or something over his shirt. He swears it had been nowhere  _near_  this cold when his mom had kicked him out earlier in the afternoon.

Kurt glances briefly away from whatever weird shit he's watching on the 55-incher.

"Couldn't sleep." He answers shortly; and Puck's not dumb enough to not notice the undercurrent there, but he's  _so_ not in the mood to deal with Hummel's latest trauma of the week.

Instead, he just jerks his head towards the mug of whatever-it-is Kurt has cradled in-between his hands:

"You got booze in there?"

"Milk." Kurt answers, sounding just a tiny bit embarassed: "It makes me sleepy."

Puck makes a face: "So would  _booze_."

He collapses back into his pillow again, neck starting to ache from twisting round.  _Fuck_. When did he get so  _old_? He stares up at the ceiling; at the weird drifting spots of light the fairy-lights are casting, making everything look kind of soft and warm and fuzzy around the edges, like a Christmas card.

Hanukkah cards are never warm and fuzzy.

"Hey, Kurt?" He tries again, grudgingly whispering so Hummel doesn't have another heart-attack.

"Mmm?"

"... Did you tuck me in?"

Kurt startles, staring at Puck for a moment before being suddenly enamoured by the steam spiralling upwards from his mug.

"It's snowing outside." He explains coolly: "I didn't want to be responsible for you freezing to death on my couch."

"Uh-huh." Puck pulls the comforter tighter around himself, mouth twisting into a crooked kind of leer: "Then why didn't you just climb on under here and warm me up?"

"Oh. Would you like me to?"

This time, it's Puck's eyes that go wide, and he yanks the thick cotton away from his face to find Kurt just looking back at him, one eyebrow half-raised in amusement.

Puck rolls his eyes, burrowing his head back into his pillow.

" _Dude_. Way to get a guy's hopes up."

Kurt chuckles to himself, but it sounds more than a bit sour:

"Single, not desperate." He reminds him. "Unlike you, apparently."

"Yeah, well, you try having your baby daughter ripped away from you twice in three years and see how fucking desperate you feel."

Suddenly-- not surprisingly-- everything goes very still; frozen like the icicles forming at the joint in the drainpipe outside. The movie continues playing on the TV, and Puck sees the garish colours reflected in Kurt's wide eyes for two seconds before he closes his own, pressing his head back into the pillow.

" _...Fuck_." he says, very softly. Four am is totally not his best time.

The Christmas tree lights continue to flicker in and out, and Puck stares at them, hand fisting in his covers until his fingernails are biting into his palm. Stupid 4am. Stupid Christmas parties. Stupid shiny, Santa's grotto Christmas-time.

He jerks a bit at the unexpected feel of the cushion near his feet depressing.

"...It's  _Moulin Rouge_." Kurt voice informs him, a little stiffly.

Puck tugs down one corner of his comforter; squints across: the other boy is perched gingerly on the very edge of the sofa, remote in one hand, mug balanced precariously on his knee. He looks stupidly young, in his pyjamas and all the poofy crap out of his hair.

Puck makes a face:

"...What?"

"The movie.  _Moulin Rouge_." Kurt repeats, and if it wasn't all shades of grey in here Puck would be pretty sure he's blushing. "It's fairly tragic, but the songs are good. There's courtesans." He adds, as if this is a selling point.

Puck stares at him for a long moment, his profile all fuzzy in the near-darkness:

"…Courta-what?"

"Oh… Hookers." Kurt clarifies, and Puck suddenly, despite himself, is interested. His eyes cut briefly to the telly-- sure enough, no-one in this big fancy-ass nightclub seems to be wearing a lot of clothes.

"Oh." He replies, then, more awkwardly: "...Awesome." He watches for a moment, all the multi-coloured hooker-dancers spinning all over the joint, glad of the distraction. Kurt taps the volume up a couple of notches and Puck's pretty sure he recognises the song although it sounds kind of weird. He wriggles his toes. The warm weight of the other boy's body so close to his feet is kind of oddly comforting.

"Are there guy hookers?" He asks suddenly, gruffly.

Kurt stares at him:

"Excuse me?"

"For you, I mean." Puck clarifies, and isn't too sure why Kurt seems to choke on his milk.

"Um, there's Ewan McGregor." He answers eventually. "I think I'll be ok."

Puck shrugs; fair enough.

He settles back under the comforter, pulling it up so he has just an eye and an ear free to watch the movie, and lets himself drift vaguely back towards sleep. When he's sufficiently half-conscious, he lifts his feet and offers Kurt the other end of the comforter, and Kurt takes it without comment, tucking the cover around himself and curling into the arm of the sofa.

It's -20 outside. But it's the warmest Puck's been in  _weeks_.


	11. (504): Staying in I think. Boyfriend has domesticated me. I'm making bacon naked right now. Also really high.

**(504): Staying in I think. Boyfriend has domesticated me. I'm making bacon naked right now. Also really high.**

There are strange noises coming from the kitchen: odd hummings, whistles and wails, punctuated by occasional pops and crackles, and it's not until Kurt has wandered his way through the sun-drenched hall to the kitchen that he realises the source of the ambient ruckus is his boyfriend, singing to himself, standing in front of the cooker with a frying pan full of bacon.

His very Jewish boyfriend. With a pan full of bacon.

His very Jewish and very  _entirely naked_  boyfriend. With a pan full of bacon.

Kurt takes the executive decision not to announce his presence for another moment or two, and instead leans carefully against the doorframe, cheek pressed against the varnished pine, eyes half-closed in contented drowsiness as he takes in the magnificent sight before him.

"Heeeeey baby." Puck says, pulling out the word like he'd forgotten how it ended.

Kurt smiles, dimpling his cheeks:

"You're wasted, aren't you?"

Puck shakes his head with such enthusiasm it's almost a dance-routine: "Nope." he insists, switching the frying pan to his other hand, the shift in weight doing  _excellent_  things to his buttocks.

Kurt smiles again, padding across to slide his arms around Puck's appealingly well-defined waist, letting his hands stroke admiringly along those strong abs before settling over his stomach.

"...Aw babe," Puck pouts: "you kept your pants on..."

"Not all of us are shameless exhibitionists." Kurt murmurs, pressing lazy kisses to the curve of Puck's neck as he watches his boyfriend flip the bacon with a spatula. His coordination's a little off: it takes a couple of attempts.

"... Why are you making us breakfast? And with pig's innards?"

"You like bacon."

"Yes." Kurt agrees, stifling a yawn against Puck's shoulder "But I won't eat all that."

"Then I'll help." Puck grins, looking adorably proud of himself. Then: "Ow! Shit..."; he jumps as a greasy spark hits his skin. "...Damn bacon."

Kurt chuckles softly, hugging Puck tighter.

They stand there for a while, watching the bacon fry, and Puck starts singing to himself again,  _Like a Prayer_. Suddenly, in the middle of the second chorus, he breaks off:

"I love you." He says, very definitely: "Like, loads."

Kurt startles a bit, lifting his head away from the back of Puck's shoulders.

"I know. I love you too." He smirks, kissing the rim of Puck's ear: "Especially when you're naked and making me breakfast."

"Damn straight."

Kurt rolls his eyes, but fondly, resting his chin once more against his boyfriend's shoulder.

"So," he asks carefully "just out of curiosity: why  _are_  you still wasted? You only had like three beers last night."

Puck's eyes flip briefly to the trash can under the sink.

"...Marijuana." He admits, just a tiny bit regretfully. "Mike left some on the counter. I tried making eggs first and thought it was tarragon."


	12. (610): I was thinking about baking his mom 'sorry you found out I was sleeping with your son' cupcakes

  
**(610): I was thinking about baking his mom 'sorry you found out I was sleeping with your son' cupcakes**

"Kurt?"

Kurt startles, spinning around from where he'd been prodding experimentally at a tray of cupcakes.

"Puck!" He exclaims, wiping his floury hands on his jeans and making the alarm bells in Puck's head advance to deafening levels. “You're not supposed to be here yet..."

"Hey babe, I'm great, nice to see you too." Puck snarks back, and Kurt scowls at him, looking alarmingly close to tears.

"We said seven, Puck;  _seven_. It's  _four thirty_..." He complains, stalking across to grab a dishtowel and yank open the oven door; Puck watches him recoil from the sudden blast of heat, distantly hoping he singes his eyebrows.

"I came early." Puck supplies shortly, not really trying to hide his irritation. "I thought you'd bailed on me, you weren't answering your phone. Finn said you were trying to decimate the kitchen."

Kurt slams the oven door again, straightening up and leaning his elbows against the counter, burrowing his face in his hands-- probably to cover the huge, shaky breath he drags in through his teeth.

Puck glowers.

"Kurt."

The other boy doesn't answer and Puck huffs out an aggravated sigh:

"Look, if you don't wanna go we won't go."

Kurt still doesn't answer, and Puck wonders if he'll have to pick up one of those fire-victim cookies and lob it at his head to get his attention. Then he realises the reason Kurt is giving him the silent treatment is because he's doing everything he can to stop from crying.

Against his better judgement, Puck steps across the kitchen and, carefully, fits his arms around Kurt's waist, tugging the other boy close in against his chest.

Kurt keeps staring at the counter for a long while.

"... I wanted to bake." He says eventually. "I thought, I could do dessert, and it would be nice..."

He sounds utterly miserable. Puck tightens his arms around him.

"Right." He replies softly. "How'd that work out?"

Kurt whacks Puck hard across the arm:

"I  _tried_ , Puck." He snaps, although it sounds watery. "I just tried, ok?" He makes a valiant attempt to extricate himself from Puck's grasp, but Puck just pulls him back, pressing his lips to the side of his temple:

"Hey, hey I'm sorry ok? I didn't mean it like that." He says, trying to be soothing-- It doesn't come all that naturally to him.

But Kurt stops struggling, and the two of them just stand like that for a long couple of minutes, Puck's cheek pressed against Kurt's and not saying anything.

"I wanted your mom to like me." Kurt admits, very quietly, and Puck shifts at the horribly guilty knot tightening in his stomach at the memory of their first-- last-- visit to the Puckerman household.

Kurt's cheek feels damp against his.

"She doesn't  _not_  like you." Puck offers awkwardly. He gives a derisive kind of snort. "It's me being an dickwad and not tellin' her for three months that she has a problem with."

Despite himself, Kurt gives a weak little sniff of laughter:

"Well that  _was_  dumb." He agrees, and Puck glances appealingly at the ceiling.

He pays attention though, when Kurt twists in his grasp and buries his face in the crook of Puck's neck. Automatically, Puck lifts a hand and runs his fingers tentatively through the soft hair at the nape of Kurt's neck.

"...You're  _covered_  in flour babe."

Kurt nods against his chest:

"Turns out I suck at baking." He mutters, and Puck gives a great snort of laughter.

"Y'know, I make a  _mean_  tiramisu." He offers gently after a moment.

Kurt pulls back slightly, and Puck grins at how much flour he's managed to get on his face.

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. And my mom  _loves_  tiramisu." He leans forward, pressing a kiss just below Kurt's eye.

Kurt blinks at him.

"Cookie dough." Puck explains, and Kurt rolls his eyes.

"Look; hows about, I make tiramisu and you go have a shower and chill the fuck out?" Puck suggests. "I'll even put extra chocolate sprinkles on top so she thinks it's from you."

By how Kurt grabs his face and presses a hard, grateful kiss to his lips, Puck guesses that's the best idea he's heard all day.

 


	13. (310): but seriously ill do anyone in one of those hats with the earflaps.

**(310): but seriously ill do anyone in one of those hats with the earflaps.**

Puck snatches the fluffy, knitted furry thing right off Hummel's head, following it up with a hard shove to the chest when the little freak automatically makes a grab to get it back. Hummel's spindly freshman body clatters off the lockers.

"Hey,  _ingrate_!"

Puck grins at the indignant little shriek— poor kid, to be stuck with a voice like that. Though Puck bets to God he's a screamer when he has a dick up his ass. Or, y'know, his own fingers, whatever. Hummel's never getting laid.

Puck stops a couple of paces away and shares an amused snigger with Azimio and Karofsky as he turns around. Hummel has his hands set on his hips, glowering at the three football players like he's trying to shoot ice-breams through their heads with just the power of his mind.

"Yo. Hummel." Puck gives him a nod in greeting. "Nice hair-do."

Hummel ignores him.

"Can I have my hat back?" He asks stonily.

Puck makes a considering face, tossing the cozy headwear back and forth between his hands:

"Nah."

Hummel sighs, and Puck watches how he shifts his weight to one side and juts his hip out, like Quinn does.

"Seriously," Hummel continues "it does nothing for your bone structure, it looks far better on me."

Puck catches the hat in his left hand, scrunching it up, and watches what little colour there is drain out of Hummel's face. He takes a step closer:

"You been checking out my bone structure Hummel?" He questions, the threat implicit. "Huh?"

Hummel holds his ground, lifting his chin like it will make any difference to the fact there's six inches of height between them.

"Well it's hard not to stare when it's so uncannily similar to prehistoric man." He shoots back, girly voice dripping sarcasm all over the floor.

 _What?_  Hold up.

Puck narrows his eyes:

"Did you just call me a  _dinosaur_?"

" _You_  call you a dinosaur,  _Puckasaurus_." Hummel replies, irritated, and Puck feels all the hairs on the back of his neck rile at this freakish fairy-boy having the balls to use his nickname. Who the fuck does he think he is, anyway?

"...One of the only moments of self-awareness I imagine you've ever had--"

"--So how much do you want it?" Puck interrupts loudly, and Hummel stops mid-snark, pretty, pink, cock-sucking lips pressing together to keep his words in.

Puck smirks: he likes the bargaining stage, when Hummel  _stops talking_.

"It worth a lot?" He enquires ponderously, spinning the hat around his fist. "How much would I get if I put it on Ebay, Hummel?"

Hummel stares at him for a long moment, and Puck has the idea he's trying to force his tongue to stay civil.

"I don't know," he answers eventually "it was a present."

Puck leers at him; takes a step closer.

"Say 'please'."

Hummel's eyes are huge and blue, like a Barbie doll's. A Barbie doll that just happens to want Puck ripped limb-from-limb before being tossed in an industrial incinerator.

"...Please." Hummel repeats, and Puck leans in, cupping a hand behind his ear:

"What? I didn't catch--"

" _\--Please._ " Hummel grits out, and Puck makes a horrified face:

"What? Fuck  _no_  Hummel, I'm not having sex with you! Stop fuckin'  _harassing_  me!"

He shouts to the hallway at large, and hears Azimio and Karofsky cracking up behind him as Hummel finally seems to break, staring above Puck's head at the ceiling as red flushes into his perfect, porcelain cheekbones. Puck smirks. This is why Hummel gets it every day after all; 'cos he's so fucking stubborn. If he'd just play nice in the first instance Puck wouldn't have to keep winding him up.

Puck waits, and eventually Hummel looks at him again, knuckles white around the strap of his man purse and clutching it tight to his side.

"Please can I have my hat back."

Puck tightens his fist, liking the feel of the fur and wool in his cold hand-- he'd almost forgotten that was why they were arguing. He flashes his teeth at Hummel. Then, carefully, he pulls the hat back into shape and plonks it back on the other boy's head. Automatically, Hummel tries to duck away, out of his grasp; but Puck doesn't let go, tugging the earflap bits down with their stupid pom-poms until the whole thing's properly back on Hummel's head. Puck used to have a hat like this, he remembers. Except, y'know, it was a proper deer-hunter, used for _hunting deer_ , in the forest with his old man. He reaches around the back of Hummel's head and yanks the back down so it sits straight, and can practically hear Hummel gritting his teeth at Puck's continued proximity. Puck takes no notice. He pulls back, tugging on the ear-flaps again, smoothing them down at either side of Hummel's face, being very particular about it. Hummel should like it after all, Puck reminds himself bitingly: he likes dressing up.

He grazes his thumbs not-so-subtly along the soft line of Hummel's cheeks and grins at the supreme effort Hummel makes not to flinch away. Then his hands grip the wooly strings either side of Hummel's jaw, pulling the pom-poms down as far as they go, flattening Hummel's hair, and holds them there for a moment, his balled up fists pressing lightly against the other boy's chest.

"...There." Puck pronounces gleefully: "All nice and pretty again."

Hummel glares at him, straight in the eye, making no bones about the fact he loathes every fiber of Puck's body.

"Thankyou." He enunciates perfectly.

Behind him, Puck hears Azimio and Karofsky chuckling, and Karofsky's clumsy hand slapping him on the shoulder. But Puck just holds Hummel's hate-filled gaze.

Then, suddenly, he lets the pom-poms go and they bounce straight back up to hit Hummel right across his stuck-up, holier-than-thou, super-distracting pout.

Puck laughs, sauntering away.

"Catch ya later Hummel."

...It's not until a couple of steps later, when he reaches down to adjust himself, he realises:

_Fuck._

He has one  _shit_  of a hard-on.


	14. (407): He tried to blame not having a condom on the economy.

  
**(407): He tried to blame not having a condom on the economy.**

Kurt curls his fingers tight around the struts in the headboard, arching his body as Puck drags his mouth down the centre of his torso, trailing soft kisses after the friction of his barely-there stubble, caressing Kurt's nipples; the dip of his abs—

"— _Ohhh..."_  Kurt's whimper breaks in his throat as his boyfriend's tongue presses into his navel, making his hips buck; but Puck's hand is there is in an instant, pinning him back down:

" _Down_ , boy." He chastises, and Kurt lifts his head to see Puck gazing heatedly back up at him.

Kurt lets his head fall back on the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. Puck's hands are already working on the fly of Kurt's pants, but his mouth--  _god_ , his  _mouth_ \-- is way ahead, a hot damp suction through the fabric of his slacks as Puck teases Kurt's hard-on with kisses and the nudge of his hot tongue; and Kurt would complain that these are _really_  expensive pants, but some things— a very, very few things—are more important than this season's Paul Smith.

" _Puuuck..._ " Kurt groans, as he feels his boyfriend's fingers slip on his fly again. "Stop  _teasing_..."

"It's all about the teasing--"

Kurt bites his lip at the vibration of Puck's voice against his crotch:

"-- _You_  are not a Cheerio."

Puck lifts his head, leering up at Kurt's infuriated expression:

"Yeah, what happened to your uniform anyways?"

"Puck!" Kurt curls a leg around Puck's back, pushing him back down on top of him.

Chuckling, Puck finally works Kurt's fly down, tugging the pants and the boxers away from his hips. His mouth is instantly back, kissing the very base of Kurt's dick; licking, sucking gently at the sensitive skin of his groin, and Kurt groans in relief— throwing an arm over his face to muffle the sound from Puck's little sister, who has a bunch of friends over playing Dance Crazy just one wall away.

Puck gives him a second’s reprieve, crawling back up Kurt's body to re-capture his mouth with his own. With effort, Kurt prises his fingers away from the headboard, wrapping them around his boyfriend's face instead, kissing slowly, heat and anticipation prickling Kurt's skin as the familiar weight of Puck's body settles over his own.

"...Baby." He whispers, nuzzling at the corner of Puck's lips. "Do you?..."

He doesn't even need to finish the sentence before Puck's leaning over to his bedside drawers, and Kurt digs his nails into his boyfriend's shoulder at the sudden shift in pressure.

He listens to the clatter of Puck rooting around, smiling weakly to himself. He doesn't know why it always takes him so long to find them, the box is  _right there_...

"...Um. Baby?"

Kurt's eyes snap open. Puck is looking apologetically back at him, upside-down condom box clutched tight in his other hand.

Kurt stares at him.

"...You're freakin' kidding me."

Puck shakes the box one more time, Kurt guesses for emphasis:

"We're all out." He announces sheepishly.

"Oh, you think?" Kurt raises an eyebrow at him. He honestly wants to cry. "… _How_  can you have run out? Don't you have an alarm on your phone for condom-buying day?"

"Well, yeah." Puck drops the box on the floor, sitting up on his haunches and so reminding Kurt that he is still _hard-as-fucking-titanium_.

"But y'know last week? When Miss Pillsbury came in and gave us that talk about budgeting and the economy being all fucked and shit, and how we all need to make savings where we can and, well, I figured: condoms are a luxuary..."

Kurt stares. He honestly does not know how to deal with this.

"Condoms are  _not_  a luxury." He interrupts loudly, pointing a finger at Puck's face. "Especially for us, right now, who are continuously going at it like bunny rabbits."

Puck smirks at that, somehow managing to find a compliment in amongst all Kurt's blatant despair.

"Well, ok, babe, but it's no big deal. I mean, it's not like I can knock you up--"

" _What?!_ "

Kurt bolts upright, pushing Puck back until he's sitting on his legs.

"Seriously??" He gapes at Puck's puzzled expression. "You thought  _that_  was why we were using them?? In case you had magic super-sperm that can  _impregnate men_????"

Puck blinks at him.

"I just figured you were being super-careful, y'know, after Quinn and--"

" _Are you Finn_???!" Kurt demands, not believing his ears.

Puck scowls at him, crossing his arms over his until-ten-seconds-ago-super-appealing pecs.

"OK, look. I was trying to save us some money..."

"I'm not having sex right now because of  _austerity measures_!!!???"

For a long, long, unhappy moment, the two boys glower at each other. Whatever arousal Kurt had been feeling seems like months ago. Probably  _pre-recession_.

Kurt takes a long, long breath.

"Okay gorgeous, here's what's gonna happen." He says, very slowly, so Puck can't possibly get confused. "You're gonna pull your pants back on. You're gonna take twenty bucks out of my wallet. You're gonna get in your truck, you're gonna drive to the store, and pick up a fifty-pack of the most awesome, strawberry flavoured, extra-ribbed condoms you can find in this hick town. Then you're gonna get back here and make sweet, sweet strawberry-flavoured love to me for the next four hours until I forget that  _you are insane_ , ok?"

Puck glowers.

"Why don't you go?"

Kurt blinks at him; then chuckles softly to himself, leaning across to press his lips close to his boyfriend's ear:

"Because out of the two of us, only one goes to math class. And I am going to be  _here_ , adding interest to the amount of pleasure you owe me for every minute that you're gone, because when the economy is this fucked? I want my money's worth."


	15. (903) Dude you were so high some kid was kicking the wall and you were convinced it was your heartbeat.

**(903) Dude you were so high some kid was kicking the wall and you were convinced it was your heartbeat.**

"Dude, no, listen." Puck crawls his way slowly down the wall, pressing his ear tight to the shiny, shiny floorboards. He has the thick, patterned rug under the rest of him, so it's ok. He won't fall.

Puck hears another thump, and it rattles through his fingers and his face, making his nose itch and his blood thrum.

"It's my heartbeat, dude, I can feel it. In the floor. In the  _floor_ , dude."

"Stop, stop, calling me dude." Kurt protests, pulling an empty Pixie Stix tube out from between his lips and giggling. He seems to think it's a spliff, but no-one's corrected him yet, and he's inhaled enough of Puck's second-hand smog to be enjoying himself, so...

"And it can't be your heart, your heart is here..." Kurt drags himself over to where Puck is spread-eagled on the floor, propping himself up on his elbow and resting a hand on Puck's shoulder.

After a moment, he crinkles up his nose, and the Pixie Stick falls out from between his lips.

"No." He corrects, and Puck forces an eye open to gaze at his hazy outline and his very, very pretty face. "...Turn over."

Obediently, Puck uses his legs to push himself up and flop over onto his back. Kurt fits himself neatly over Puck's chest, nuzzling the side of his face against Puck's chest cavity, on the left side, where his heartbeat used to be until he could hear it  _throbbing in the walls_.

"Hmmm..." Puck lets his eyes flutter closed as he lifts a hand, tangling his fingers gently in Kurt's hair. Kurt has nice hair. He should touch it more often. In answer, he feels the other boy curl more closely into his body, nice and warm and snuggly.

"No, see, I can hear it, here. I can hear it." Kurt assures him, and takes a deep breath, ghosting the fingers of his other hand explanatorily over Puck's pierced nipple, like he was just checking it was still there.

Puck feels him grin against his chest:

"It's loud." Kurt reports "...And fast..."

Puck feels another thump, against his shoulders; trickling down his spine. Then another three in quick succession: _thump, thump, thump_. His heart has  _never_  sounded this crazy before.

He lifts his head off the floor, trying to convey to Kurt's big shiny snowglobe eyes how unsettling this is:

"My heart sounds  _crazy_." He says, and likes how the corners of the other boy's mouth turn downwards: he understands.

"Well... Well, Puck." Kurt tries to sound logical, pushing himself up with his hands spread across Puck's chest. He fixes Puck in a sceptical kind of look:

"You are very,  _very_  high."

Puck nods. Sounds legit.

"Listen again." He urges, and Kurt obediently presses his ear back to Puck's chest.

This time, Puck reaches down and slides a hand around the back of Kurt's thigh, tugging the other boy over until he's curled around Puck's leg and spread-eagled across his torso. Aw, he's so nice and warm and... hard... against Puck's hip.

"Quinn said I didn't have one." Puck admits quietly, smoothing his hand once again through Kurt's soft hair.

"...What?"

"A heart." Puck frowns at the memory. He's not quite sure where Quinn is right now. He thinks she left a long while ago. Before the Pixie Stix came out.

He hears another thump, even louder than the last one, and Kurt pulls away from his hand.

"Oh, no... She was wrong." Kurt tells him, pulling himself a little further up Puck's body so Puck can see his mouth moving. He lifts his hand and grazes his fingertips softly against Puck's jaw.

Then, he leans up, meeting Puck's lips gently with his own.

Gratefully, Puck's eyes slip closed, his hand hovering just above the nape of Kurt's neck. He doesn't even need to hold him to keep him close.

"...See?"

Kurt slips away again, pressing his cheek back to Puck's chest.

"It's here. I can hear it. Fast and loud."

He taps the rhythm against Puck's shoulder with his other fingertips, and Puck grins, liking all the places where Kurt is touching him.

He ghosts his own fingers along the soft line of Kurt's neck.

"...Do that again." He asks.


	16. (414): I feel like our bond as friends is a lot stronger now that I've talked to you on the phone while having sex.

**(414): I feel like our bond as friends is a lot stronger now that I've talked to you on the phone while having sex.**

"Puck? How unexpected."

Kurt tries to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. But, to be fair, he doesn’t try  _hard_.

"Kurt? Yo, Kurt..." Puck tacks a lazy chuckle onto the end of his words, and Kurt glances impatiently at the ceiling, tucking the phone into his shoulder:

"Are you drunk Puckerman?"

Puck has had a habit of drunk-dialling him recently. Kurt has no idea why. Unfortunately, it's really never as entertaining as he wants it to be; just lots of slurring and giggling and Kurt hanging up.

Sometimes he really regrets making friends with jocks.

"Nah, nah, I'm good, I'm  _gooood_ -ohhhh… _ohhh_..."

Kurt quirks his eyebrows.

"You sound... otherwise engaged." He points out, resuming his english homework.

Puck cackles into his ear, a weird, broken breathless noise.

"Fuck no, I'm not  _engaged_!" He protests, consonants sliding all over the place. Kurt half quirks a smile.

"Not quite what I meant. Anyway, what can I help you with?"

"Oh, Mmmmm, yeah..." Puck sounds ridiculously contented, purring his words into Kurt's ear. "You can help me... You can  _totally_  help me..."

In the background, Kurt hears another breathless giggle and frowns, pressing the phone a little closer to his ear.

"Puck? Have you got someone else there?"

"Ha, yeah, no!!" Puck sounds endearingly amused by everything Kurt says. "It's just,  _ah fuck_ , Brittany-- say hi Britt!"

The phone fumbles for a second then Brittany's voice comes, shouting cheerfully down the line:

"Hi Britt!"

Mentally, Kurt facepalms himself:

"Hi Brittany." He says fondly. "What you up to?"

"Oh, nothing..." Brittany's voice is all sunshine and lollipops; then it goes quieter, the way it does when she's talking about armpits: "...Shhh, don't tell... But I let Puck's unicorn find the end of my rainbow..."

She giggles, but it breaks in the middle with a breathless little moan, and Kurt feels all the blood drain out of his face in an instant.

"I...W-what?"

Unfortunately, prolonged exposure has made Brittany-speak far easier to translate.

Puck laughs again, far too loud right next to Kurt's ear:

"Freaking rainbows!" He repeats, and this time Kurt can hear it, the unmistakable rhythmic thwack of headboard against wall: "I love—a good— fucking— _rainbow_..."

Numbly, Kurt pulls the phone away from his ear.

Fairytales have just been ruined forever.


	17. (414): I feel like our bond as friends is a lot stronger now that I've talked to you on the phone while having sex.

**(414): I feel like our bond as friends is a lot stronger now that I've talked to you on the phone while having sex.**

Puck throws himself back down on his usual spot on the Hummel-Hudson's sofa, licking Dorito salt off the fingers of one hand whilst finishing off a text to Santana with the other. Beside him, Kurt crosses his legs and shifts perceptively closer to the arm of the sofa and  _oh_ ; that reminds him:

"Hey," Puck glances across at Finn's stalker-turned-stepbrother: "did I call you last night?"

Kurt turns his head, and for a long moment just  _looks_  at him.

Puck scrunches up his nose: "...What?"

The other boy narrows his eyes, looking considering: "I don't suppose you remember Brittany mentioning anything to you about certain... mythological creatures... invading certain... brightly coloured locations, do you?"

Puck blinks: "...My unicorn finding the end of her rainbow?"

" _Oh god_." Kurt's head collapses into his hands and Puck bursts out laughing, biting down on his fist into his mouth to keep from spluttering.

"I called you  _while_  I banging her?" Puck gasps, "Oh god, that is  _hilarious_ \--"

"--It's not  _hilarious_  to give your friends brain trauma." Kurt retorts, sounding pretty much like Miss Pillsbury sounds when she has to give him safe sex tips.

Puck throws up his hands. "What? It's way better than saying ‘she let me put my dick in her--'"

"-- _Stop right there_!" Kurt throws out a hand, the other one still plastered over his eyes. Puck is shaking from laughing so hard, and he flails a bit uselessly, grabbing Hummel's hand, pulling it out of the way.

"Dude,  _chill out_!" He crows. "At least it wasn't  _Berry_  having sex. It's just like free porn, right?" He bounces his eyebrows in a hungry kind of way, thrusting his groin a bit: " _Premium rate_ , I'm guessing..."

Kurt makes a whimpering noise, pulling his legs up into his body and curling round the arm of the sofa, like it'll protect his innocence.

"You're a one-man argument against evolution, you know that?" He complains, his big unimpressed eyes looking even bluer than normal against the rosy pink colour his face has gone.

Puck smirks at him, resting one elbow on the back of the sofa and leaning in a bit.

"Was it hot?" he whispers.

Kurt purses his lips:

"Not in the slightest."

Aw that's sweet. He lisps when he's lying.

"Really?"

" _Very_  really." Kurt reiterates, and Puck grins at how his fingers float down to pull at his jeans: "Let me assure you, it is never 'hot'--" he does the airquotes "--to listen to your friends having sex, especially when it's all tied up with imagery of various fluffy fairytale animals."

"Oh..." Puck tries to look innocent: "y'know that's weird, 'cos it was like..." Puck looks at his phone again, checking his call list: "... _eight minutes_  till you hung up again..."

Kurt's face is  _burning_.

"Well that's not hugely suprising, I'm pretty sure I was suffering from acute  _shock_."

"Or an acute  _boner_." Puck teases, then pokes the other boy in the ribs with his elbow: "Do you have a cute boner, Hummel?" and Kurt just scowls, smacking him across the shoulder and getting to his feet.

"You are insufferable!" He pronounces, jabbing a finger at him and flouncing out just as Finn returns, cradling an armful of corn chips.

He cringes as Kurt's voice shouts down the stairs:

"And I wouldn't be too proud about  _eight minutes_ , Noah!"

For a long couple of seconds, Finn stares after his step-brother, clearly puzzled. Then, sighing, he glances wearily at Puck.

"Dude, couldn't you just  _try_  and get along? It's his house too."

Puck smirks, grabbing the remote and settling back into the sofa. "We get along just fine."

There's not many dudes Puck'd call when he's plastered. Maybe one day he'll even get up the nerve to call Kurt sober.

For now though-- this is just way too much fun.


	18. (779): Stars make me really horny. Especially that shiny one its just staring at me.

**(779): Stars make me really horny. Especially that shiny one its just staring at me.**

Kurt settles further back against Puck's chest, pointing upwards at the dust of tiny, flickering lights peppering the sky above them.

"I used to know the constellations." He murmurs drowsily, his fingertip drawing lines between stars seemingly at random. "I used to... I had a book..."

Puck's teeth graze the rim of his boyfriend's ear: " _Nerd_." He teases, and Kurt half-heartedly slaps him across the calf.

"I had a book..." he repeats with a pout, and tilts his head so Puck's lips can get better access to his neck.

Puck smiles against the other boy's skin:

"Well. You gotta remember some of it." He prods softly.

"Mmm..." Kurt sounds unconvinced; then he glances up again, scanning the sky for a moment before his finger finds an exceptionally bright star shining just to the right of them.

"That's... Sirius."

"Like in Harry Potter?" Puck suggests.

Kurt smiles, nodding vaguely.

"The very same. It's our closest star... After, like,  _the sun_ , obviously."

"Well how far away is it?"

Kurt shrugs, grazing his fingernails over Puck's knee.

"Like, ten metres? I dunno..."

Puck gives a snort, wrapping his arms tighter around Kurt's waist, resting his chin on his shoulder.  _God_ , he loves this boy.

For a long moment they just sit, contentedly together, staring up at the stars and letting the embers of the fire keep them warm. The perpetual thunder of the ocean is just background noise, lulling them to sleep.

"I just love them, y'know?" Kurt pipes up again, leaning the side of his head against Puck's. "We hardly notice them at home and then... when we come all the way out here there's just so... so  _many_ ; so many more."

He's more than a bit tipsy, and Puck smiles at how his words seem to tumble over each other in their rush to get out his mouth.

Puck, it's got to be said, has never felt that urge.

He snorts at his own wit, stroking his fingers softly along the inside of Kurt's thigh.

"It's gorgeous isn't it?" He agrees.

"Gorgeous." Kurt echoes softly, nodding. "There's so many and so  _tiny_. It's like you never notice how big the sky is until there's these millions and millions and...  _millions_  of stars in it and then it seems to go on  _forever_."

Puck follows his gaze. It sure is pretty big.

"And I love that so many people are staring at them." Kurt continues, shifting and snuggling closer against Puck's chest. "That so many people all like  _forever_  have been staring at them, and  _will_  be staring at them and we're just tiny in the middle of it all but it's like this one thing that holds us all together. ..Y'know? We all think our lives are the most important thing ever and, and that's all well and good and it's  _fine_ ; but no-one looks up at the stars and thinks their own life is the thing to be amazed at, y'know? They realise that no matter how big they get, or how important they are, the sky is always there and millions of stars and it's  _huge_ , and we're all just little tiny people."

Puck grins.

"…Did you take a breath at  _any point_  there babe?"

Kurt laughs, and lifts a hand behind him to curl in Puck's hair, bringing their lips briefly together.

"I can breathe and talk at the same time." He scoffs. "I'm a  _professional_."

"A professional what?" Puck teases, rubbing their noses together: "Bullshitter?"

"Mmm..." Kurt smiles. "I prefer ‘sweet-talker’."

"Oh."

Puck captures his boyfriend's lips again, little pleasurable shiver skating down his spine at how languid it is; how Kurt's buzzed, oversensitive body melts against his, arching into the softest touch as Puck's fingertips trace lazy swirls against his stomach.

"You're so hot right now baby." He murmurs, and Kurt grins, hand drifting over to cover Puck's other one still kneading gently at the inside of his thigh.

"It's the stars." He whispers knowingly, lacing their fingers together. "They do that."


	19. (903): EVERYONE CAN HEAR YOU F*CKING YOU ARE IN A TENT

  
**(903): EVERYONE CAN HEAR YOU F*CKING YOU ARE IN A TENT**

Kurt pulls his sweater on, grimacing a little because  _everything_  in here smells of sex.

"They're going to applaud us when we go outside, aren't they?"

Puck just grins.

"Damn right they will." He replies, in an absurdly reasonable voice. "I'd like to see any of  _them_  keep it up for four hours straight."

Kurt drags his fingers through his hair. Maybe he can go for purposefully tousled?

"...Your watch is  _broken_ , Puck." He reminds him.

"Yeah..." Puck smirks, and nudges Kurt with his toe through his sleeping bag: "That's 'cos  _time stood still_  for us last night, baby."

Despite himself, Kurt snorts, leaning back to slap Puck lightly across the shoulder:

"You're such a moron."

But he doesn't put up a huge fight when Puck slides his hand around the side of his neck and tugs him back in for another kiss.

"Mmmm..." Kurt smiles against Puck's lips, letting his fingers drift down the other boy's warm, bare torso. He glides his thumb along the smooth ridge of his hipbone and blushes hotly when he remembers Puck hasn't got round to putting his pants back on yet.

"You need to at least put some clothes on before we go out and face the bloodthirsty hoards." He suggests.

Puck's eyes flutter open, eyelashes brushing Kurt' cheek, and at this distance Kurt can't help but gaze into them, not believing that it's taken him this long to realise how  _stunningly gorgeous_  Noah Puckerman's eyes are.

"Nah." The other boy shrugs, combing his fingers through the back of Kurt's hair and making him shiver. "If I walk out there butt-naked it totally distracts from you walk-of-shaming it back to the girls' tent."

Kurt tilts his head a little, considering:

"...If you walk out there butt-naked I probably  _won't make it_  back to the girls' tent."

Puck chuckles, glancing down at the satiny sleeping-bag ground between them. When he looks up again, Kurt's sure there's something different in his eyes, something softer. But then he simply cups Kurt's cheek and kisses him lightly on the lips.

"Right. C'mon. Let's get this shit together."

Puck disappears into his sleeping bag (boy has no shame, seriously, it  _cannot_  be pleasant in there) and emerges awkwardly a couple of seconds later with his boxers back on, albeit inside out. Kurt smirks to himself and watches with interest as Puck tries to pull his jeans on in the itsy-bitsy dimensions of the tent pod, without damaging himself or accidentally kicking Kurt in the face.

"Shirt?" Kurt asks, holding a fresh one out for him.

Puck takes it, one corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. "Fine. Guess we don't need everyone seein' the cat-scratches you left in my back."

"Well now you're just making things up." Kurt retorts tartly, and Puck grins at him.

When they can't put it off any longer, Kurt crawls out of the pod (no-one else is still in their sections, surprise surprise) and tiptoes over to the front door flap. It's half-unzipped, and the clatter and shuffle of the others up and about and making breakfast is kind of overwhelming after the sweet, drowsy feeling of waking up in Puck's arms.

"Well go on then." Puck says quietly, coming up behind and wrapping an arm round Kurt's waist.

Kurt raises an eyebrow.

"You know, I really should thank you and your jock friends." He murmurs ironically. "Public humiliation is pretty much a way of life for me."

Puck kisses the back of his ear:

"You and me both babe."

Then Kurt takes a deep breath and ducks outside into the sunshine; and for the first time ever (although not the last) enjoys a standing ovation.

 


	20. (217): Okay let's be incredibly straightforward. Hi there. My bed's at half capacity this evening. How'd you like to fill it up?

**(217): Okay let's be incredibly straightforward. Hi there. My bed's at half capacity this evening. How'd you like to fill it up?**

It's shockingly quiet.

Puck parts his lips and a trembling half-breath escapes. It seems to dissolve in the blue air, cloying his nose and mouth and leaving a hot buzz in his ears like a flatline.

Kurt, sprawled across the right side of his chest, is painfully warm; painfully pale.

Puck shifts; tries to shift, but one of Kurt's legs is caught between his-- the other out in the cold, curled against the edge of the mattress. Under the covers, scattered around the room, are all their items of clothing, and Puck tries muzzily in the dark to remember where he dropped his. Because he should go. He should go; and stop  _fucking up everything_  that's good in either of their lives.

Puck clenches his fingers in the back of the other boy's sweat-soaked hair. It's  _his_  fault. If he hadn't invited him over... If Kurt hadn't invited him, Puck wouldn't have come. Him and his lithe, gorgeous body, and wicked sharp tongue, and tiny in-jokes they've spent years constructing, and eyes red with booze and tears.

Because Puck isn't this person anymore. He tries  _so hard_  not to be, and now he's Glee's lovable miscreant instead of a heartless bastard.

But Kurt opened the door in his fuck-me jeans, and a shirt that was too easy to take off, and had to lean against the doorframe to keep standing, so it was  _so much easier_  to lie him down... Lie him down like he's wanted to do for fucking  _ever_ ; kiss him, let Kurt kiss  _him_  like he was everything he wanted; like he really was saving him and not just faking it to get that fuck he knows he'll never be good enough for any other day.

Puck bites his lip until he tastes blood. He squeezes his eyes shut and wants to punch fucking  _everything_ ; wants to take all the careful teenage mementos scattered around Kurt's room and smash them against the floor and scream till he's hoarse.

The other boy is out cold, cheek cool and damp where he cried against Puck's chest.

Numbly, Puck disentangles himself. He draws away, turning on his side, huddling against the far edge of Kurt's big, ransacked bed.

He stares across at Kurt's silent form, half buried in the comforter.

He stares, and fists his hand in the sheets when he feels the first hot tear slip across his nose.

God, he's so fucking beautiful.

After a long while, the sheets go cool between them, and Puck reaches across and tugs the comforter up to Kurt's neck, resting his fingers briefly at his nape, smoothing his thumb across the curve of his ear.

 _Oh_  now  _you're considerate_ , an incredulous voice mocks at the back of his head, and it's Quinn's.

Puck holds his fingers there for long minutes, soaking up Kurt's heat through his fingertips. He  _should_  go. That would be easier, maybe. That's what he usually does. What he  _used_  to do.

 _Please don't hate me._  He thinks, suddenly desperate.  _Please don't hate me_.

He won't go. He'll stay, get out of bed early and tidy up the mess they've made. Maybe make coffee.

Fuck.  _Coffee. Fuck_. Like it'll make any difference when Kurt looks at him in the morning and  _remembers_.

Puck pulls his arm back to himself, tucking it under the covers.

He won't sleep.

But he closes his eyes anyway, and prays hollowly to God that He'll let him fix this one. But he figures:

He doesn't exactly have much credit stacked up.


	21. (925): Tequila me may have very bluntly told him that I wanted to touch his abs.

**(925): Tequila me may have very bluntly told him that I wanted to touch his abs.**

Kurt elegantly pulls himself up and face-plants into the kitchen table, feeling Mercedes catch his drink out of his hand just before he hits:

" _Ugh_!" He exclaims, pressing his nose into the tablecloth. "Why do you even let me out in  _public_??!"

Mercedes sounds sympathetic:

"Did you try and rip Rachel's clothes off again?"

"I was going to rip them off and  _burn them_!" He clarifies, trying to minimise his slurring. "Don't imply any sordid activities, it's  _Rachel._ "

He buries his face back against the table and, after a second, feels Mercedes reach across and rub soothing circles into his back.

"Then what was it this time...?"

Kurt whimpers, pouting out his bottom lip even though from this angle Mercedes can't see it:

"I don't want to talk about it..."

That's a lie obviously. And Mercedes knows it too, 'cos he can pretty much hear her rolling her eyes and waiting for him to continue.

"Okay..." Kurt sighs, bringing his hands up to bury his face in them. "I think I just… admitted to Puck that I--”

“—Am madly and disturbingly in love with him?”

Kurt skewers her in a glare:

“—That I wanted to...” He closes his eyes: “…touch his abs."

He cringes, waiting for Mercedes' gales of laughter... He's a bit surprised when she just snorts:

"That it?" She retorts incredulously. "Sweetie, drunk you's said alot worse." she shrugs. "At least you didn't say you wanted to touch his  _penis_ \--"

" _\--Mercedes_!" Kurt drags his head up to glare at her, eyes full of pain and anger. "Why do you say these things?!" He glances despairingly down at the tabletop and mumbles: "...Now I just want to touch his penis...."

This time, Mercedes  _does_  laugh, clutching an arm across her stomach, trying to keep Kurt's Mai-Tai steady as she's wracked with happy-drunk giggles.

Glowering, Kurt holds his hand out, and Mercedes readily passes back his drink, trying to recompose her expression into something vaguely sympathetic:

"Babe, he's stoned out of his face." She reminds him breathlessly. "He probs didn' even notice..."

"Santana was listening in." Kurt admits despairingly.

Mercedes instantly sobers.

"Oh shit babe, you goin to  _hell_."

Kurt nods, resignedly; then takes a hearty sip of his Mai-Tai (maybe his last  _ever_ ) and drops his forehead back to the table with an uncomfortable thump:

"He's going to play football with my  _mutilated carcass_..."

"...Whose mutilated carcass?"

At the sound of Puck's languid baritone Kurt's head snaps reflexively back up, hair falling into his eyes.

Instantly, he swipes it away again, blinking rapidly.

Mercedes grins: "Kurt's." She supplies. "He's offering himself up as a human sacrifice to the vengeful gods of teenage humiliation."

Puck's forehead wrinkles in an amused frown, like they're trying to communicate to him in dolphin-speak.

"Okay..." He drawls. "But y'know, that sounds  _way_  less fun than sticking around for the rest of the party...." Then he lifts his elbow, leaning languorously against the doorframe, so Kurt can see every perfectly defined muscle of his perfectly  _topless_  form even more  _perfectly_.

Puck's eyes flick across, seeming to fix on his.

His mouth curls wickedly at the corner:

"...We're doing body shots."


	22. (518): He needs to respect me before he can f*ck me with cat ears on.

**(518): He needs to respect me before he can f*ck me with cat ears on.**

Puck approaches Kurt by the punch bowl, tilting his trilby down at a more rakish angle over his scary-ass zombie make-up. The other boy is gazing thoughtfully over the ransacked contents of Rachel's drinks table, swaying vaguely along with the music and making his tail swish in enticing little swirls behind him.

Puck gulps. God. He'd never figured himself for having a furry fetish until  _right the fuck now_.

He leans close over Kurt's shoulder, feeling the other boy stiffen like he actually  _is_  a cat, fur bristling all up and down his spine.

"Baby--"

"--Noah." Kurt interrupts, raising a finger. "I thought we'd talked about terms of endearment?"

Puck grits his teeth.

"Yeah ok, you're mad at me, I get it, I know. But you realise this--" He gestures down at Kurt's black-clad form; his knee boots, his adorable little cat-ears "--is like psychosexual torture, right?"

Kurt's mouth forms an sardonic little 'o', and he twists around, leaning back against the table.

"Well; that's a big word for someone who skips out of class to go bang cheerleaders in supply closets."

Puck sighs, leaning his hand against the table beside Kurt's hip: "Will you  _stop_? I said I was sorry."

Kurt is staring at the hand beside him like he might bite it.

(Honestly, the cat thing is totally dead-on).

"True." He concedes.

"Thankyou."

Kurt shrugs. "But I guess I'm just not quite ready to forgive you yet for all the, you know,  _public humiliation_ , and things."

He lifts his black-rimmed eyes, glowering up at Puck and crossing his arms over his chest. Somehow (Puck's really not sure how) he manages to look intimidating even with whiskers.

Puck can't stand when Kurt looks at him like that. All hurt and disappointment and righteous anger. He reminds him way too much of Quinn, and that is  _never_  gonna be a good thing, right?

He throws his hands in the air:

"Ok, what then?" He asks, forcing himself to keep his voice down so Finn doesn't rush in all Superman. "What do I need to do to get you to forgive me?"

Kurt's expression doesn't shift:

"...Tell me that you didn't just come over here 'cos I'm wearing spandex and cat-ears and all your regular booty calls are hooked up already."

Puck stares at him.

For a long moment, Kurt holds his gaze. Then he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible, smile:

"Yeah."

Then, with all the grace his costume implies, he side-steps Puck, disappearing back into the party.

Puck screws up his eyes, grabbing Kurt's abandoned solo cup and crunching it in his fist.

God, he hates that boy.


	23. (519): My nipple ring got caught on the rug again. Tequila makes me unlearn these things.

**(519): My nipple ring got caught on the rug again. Tequila makes me unlearn these things.**

There is no alcohol left. There is blood crusting around his nipple. Kurt is wearing clothes again.

Clearly, somewhere along the line, this night got fucked up.

Puck pouts out his lower lip, half closing his eyes and cradling his spinning head against the armrest.

"It  _huuurts..._ " He moans.

Kurt's pyjama clad legs pass through his line of vision and off again towards the utility.

"I know baby."

Puck screws up his nose.

"You sound like you don't even  _care_..."

"... Of course I care." Kurt shouts through from the other room. "...Don't be—  _damn it!_ \-- ridiculous."

Puck makes a whining noise, and maybe kicks the sofa.

"Stop ruining the furnishings!" Kurt scolds, and Puck hears him slam the cupboard, then the brain-grating sound of a scrubbing brush against high-quality wool.

"You care more about the carpet than you care about  _me_...." Puck moans, holding onto the couch cushions so he can slide down and curl himself into the foetal position on the floor. He just wants to sleeeeep, and Kurt is  _scrubbing things_.

He squeezes his eyes shut and rolls a bit about the floor, trying to get one foot flat against the carpet. He's heard that's supposed to help stop the dizziness.

...Shit. It's not helping.

"Ughhhh..." Puck flops over onto his back, laying his legs and arms down against the floor like a big giant drunken starfish.

...Why the hell is drunk-him always thinking of sea-creatures? Maybe he should be a marine-biologist or something?

Note to self: talk to Miss Pillsbury about sea-creature careers.

"I could be a starfish!" He shouts, to the walls in general. Then he winces, and glances down to look at his tattered nipple: "...A  _starfish_." He assures it, in a whisper. Starfish are cool.

"You know, if a starfish ripped off a nipple it could grow it back in a day and a half." Kurt says, reappearing once more and smelling of stain remover. "It wouldn't be crying like a big mohawked baby at three in the morning."

Puck wrenches an eye open, staring upwards, and trying to focus on his boyfriend's unusually blurry face.

“Starfish  _don't have_  nipples." He corrects him sulkily, and Kurt just finally cracks a smile, kneeling down beside Puck's prone, naked body.

He leans over, brushing a hand back through Puck's mohawk and kissing him gently on the temple.

"You want me to clean you up babe?"

With his one open eye, Puck glowers at him. He doesn't know why  _Kurt_  never makes an ass of himself like this; why _he_  never injures himself on soft furnishing after double-fisting tequila… And he hates that in the morning Kurt's always the smug one eating croissants and orange juice without throwing up all over the bathroom, and Puck really doesn't want to give him that satisfaction.

But honestly? His nipple really,  _really_  hurts.

Grudgingly, Puck nods, forcing his alcohol-numbed face into an exceptionally sad expression:

"...Yeeaaah."

Kurt smiles. "Ok then."

Puck closes his eyes, still pouting as Kurt starts dabbing antiseptic onto tissues. And  _god_  that is not a smell that works well with tequila poisoning.

But then he feels Kurt climb over him, and settle himself with a knee either side of Puck's hips as he daubs antiseptic lovingly around Puck's sad-looking nipple, stroking Puck's abs soothingly with his other thumb, and Puck remembers:

He's never leaving this boy, not ever.

Or at least until he gives up double-fisting tequila.


	24. (774): i just walked into a room at this party and someone yelled "dibs!"...

**(774): i just walked into a room at this party and someone yelled "dibs!"...**

"Jackson."

"Kurt." Kurt smiles as he introduces himself, although he's pretty sure he doesn't put any teeth into it. He doesn't really have the energy for this: talking to strangers. He doesn't really have the energy for much, he thinks, beyond perching on his bar stool and staring over everyone else's heads and wishing he'd stayed home.

Four weeks is clearly too soon.

"I like it." The boy named Jackson says, and Kurt thinks his smile isn't a huge amount more genuine than his. "German, right?"

"Sure." Kurt answers faintly, clutching his daiquiri to his chest. He wishes he hadn't accepted it.

Jackson nods enthusiastically, as if Kurt had just disclosed the location of El Dorado. "Cool!" He grins again, resting an elbow on the bar next to Kurt. "So. Are you enjoying the party?"

He really isn't. Not at all. it's so much easier to be miserable when it's just you and ice-cream and Disney's  _Hercules_.

Kurt shifts his drink to his other hand. "Oh, yeah, it's nice being able to see everyone outside of competition." He lies, making an effort to form polysyllables. "Much easier to spike Vocal Adrenaline’s Gatorade."

Too late, he realises that didn't sound like a joke  _at all_ , and he tacks on an awkward, nervous little chuckle like the kind he used to do around Finn in tenth grade. Jackson's game face slips for a second, and Kurt takes a long, long draw from his daiquiri.

"Sorry." He admits awkwardly. "...It's been a... rough day for me."

A crease appears between Jackson's eyebrows:

"But you guys won your heat, right?"

Kurt nods. "Not competition stuff. Just..." He waves his fingers. "Stuff."

Jackson glances out over the crowd. Kurt can just make out Rachel and Quinn living it large in the middle of the dancefloor. He wonders if they'd miss him if he skulked off and went back to his room.

Probably not.

"Yeah I get that." Jackson agrees softly. "...You know, half the reason those Vocal Adrenaline kids get so into Showchoir is 'cos they can't deal with regular stuff. They need to be in control."

Kurt raises his eyebrows. "Everyone likes to be in control."

He's not bitter. Not at all.

Jackson glances back at him: "I guess." Kurt doesn't miss how his gaze slips a little bit further down Kurt's body. "...Do you?"

Kurt feels his own mouth curling at the corner. He doesn't think he wants to play this game.

"That's an odd kind of question."

The other boy smiles, flushing a little. "I suppose it is... So, are you guys staying at the Marriot?"

Kurt does his best not to blink. "Everyone's staying at the Marriot."

Jackson glances down at Kurt's legs. "I was thinking of heading back soon. Y'know, if you wanted to chill out and watch some crappy TV and stuff. Get outta this crazy place."

Kurt exhales incredulously through his straw, making his drink bubble.

"Ha, I don't-- I don't really think that'd be a good idea. I have some very vicious girlfriends."

Jackson shrugs; glances back at the floor. "They all look kinda preoccupied..."

Kurt follows his gaze.  _They do_ , he thinks.  _They fucking do_...

"—Hey! I thought I called dibs on this sweet ass???"

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, Kurt has a big muscly arm around his shoulders; and that arm is attached to one slightly inebriated Noah Puckerman.

Kurt has never been so grateful to see him.

All at once, all the charm goes out of Jackson's big green eyes:

"Hey, I'm sorry-- Who are you?"

Puck laughs, tightening his arm around Kurt. "I'm the dibs-master." He informs him, in his best I-am-the-Batman voice. "Which means, I can interrupt any conversation, at any point, to get with my boy here. Those are the rules of the dibs."

Jackson looks unconvinced, and raises an eyebrow at Kurt:

"Kurt, do you know this guy?"

Sighing, Kurt nods, pulling his straw out from between his lips: "I'm afraid I do."

"Okay," Jackson looks hugely confused. "Look, mohawk--"

"--Name's Puck."

"-- _Puck_." Jackson wrinkles his nose. "I was just chatting with Kurt, okay? And I'm pretty sure calling dibs on someone is hugely objectifying."

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure hitting on a guy at a bar while wearing a polo shirt and ankle boots is violating the gay code, but hey, who's taking notes?" Puck almost growls, and Kurt cannot believe how surreal this is.

For a long minute, Jackson looks between them, as if trying to work out what the fuck's happened to his world. Then, seeming to realise his odds, he just tips his glass to Kurt:

"Fine. Come find me if you get bored of Cro-Magnon here."

Kurt rolls his eyes, raising his glass back:

"Sure thing."

Together, Puck and Kurt watch as Jackson slinks sulkily back into the crowd. When he's finally gone (no-one else in New Directions having even glanced their way) Kurt drops his head against Puck's shoulder, hating how his tears start to well up.

Puck tightens his arm, pulling Kurt closer against his side:

"Lucky escape dude." He says softly, running his thumb back and forth across Kurt's shoulder. "So. Wanna go hit up an iHop?"

It sounds like  _heaven_.

Kurt nods, murmuring against Puck's chest:

"…But I get dibs on the maple syrup."


	25. (402): You're getting a blowjob this afternoon. This has been your morning public service announcement.

**(402): You're getting a blowjob this afternoon. This has been your morning public service announcement.**

"So what's the occasion?" Puck murmurs when he and Kurt eventually need to break for air, sliding down to nibble at the other boy's collarbone.

He feels Kurt smile, tilting his head to let Puck's lips closer against his neck.

"Oh babe, why does there have to be a special occasion for my showing you how much I appreciate you via oral sex?"

Puck snorts, pressing a kiss to Kurt's jawline. Boy speaks so much sense.

"You're right." He agrees. "There totally doesn't need to be a reason."

Kurt chuckles, and Puck can feel that amused noise against his lips and trickling right down to his toes.

God, today is  _awesome_.

"Actually,  _you're_  right..." Kurt corrects. Then, suddenly, Puck feels Kurt's hands against his shoulders, unexpectedly strong as he pushes him away:

"This is a shameless act of bribery."

Puck blinks; and, all at once, Kurt's dazed, loving expression seems to transform into something far, far more sinister.

Puck's eyebrows collapse into a frown: "Uh, what?"

Kurt smiles brightly at him, bouncing a little on his toes:

"We're going prom shopping!"

 _Oh hell to the no_.

"Uh..." Puck raises two objecting fingers; but Kurt has already swept past him to pick up his jacket from the coat-stand. Puck spins to follow him:

"...What now?"

"Prom shopping." Kurt repeats cheerfully. "For  _prom_."

"Yeah, I get it, but--" Puck stamps blindly after him, feeling like his balls are weighing him down with sheer anticipation. "You said  _blowjobs_. Shopping is not blowjobs."

"Maybe it's one of my geeky virgin euphemisms." Kurt suggests.

"No!" Puck protests, not amused. "Shopping is not blowjobs." He tugs his phone out his pocket and waves it wildly at Kurt's face: "You said blowjobs. You  _said_  blowjob—"

He's cut off by Kurt leaping at his face and clapping a hand over his mouth:

"Okay, but could  _you_  stop saying 'blowjobs'? 'Cos Finn's still upstairs and I don't need him to try and give me sex lectures again."

Puck glowers at him over his hand.

Kurt is immovable.

"Alright." the evil little countertenor sighs. "Perhaps I didn't make myself quite clear."

He begins again in a quieter voice, still not removing his hand from Puck's mouth.

"We're going prom shopping." He explains. "It's going to be a fun yet challenging afternoon, because senior prom is a big deal to me."

He takes a step forward, and Puck has no choice but to go where Kurt pushes him.

"I also know that shopping is one of your least favourite activities, and there will no doubt be forty-five minutes or so of you throwing your big burly man weight around saying you don't like this tie, or these shoes are too shiny, or what the hell is a reverse pleat anyway."

Another step, and a contented little smile pushes itself across Kurt's lips:

"However, I am prepared to honour your efforts. I'm a man of my word, as I'm sure you know. I keep my promises."

One last step, and Puck finds himself backed up against the hallway wall, with his evil boyfriend pressing a lithe, toned thigh between both of his.

"And I know I'm not always fair to you on the sexual front because, well, I  _am_  trying to break into musical theatre and my voice is very important to me and practicing safe sex isn't always something you're on board with..."

Puck growls. He's got drawer  _full_  of fucking strawberry flavoured condoms after that last time.

"But I feel we can make exceptions. And I can guarantee that, if you do this for me, I will pleasure you so hard, and for so long, that  _you'll_  be able to hit my High F."

Puck stares at him.

Very, very slowly, Kurt removes his fingers.

His other hand is wrapped around Puck's belt, dragging their bodies hard enough together that Puck can tell pretty much without a doubt that he's not the only one  _achingly_  turned-on right now.

Puck gazes at Kurt's gorgeous soft, shiny lips smirking just an inch any from his own.

Then he swallows. Hard.

"...Let's go shopping."


	26. (719): He was all like, 'I think ur the one that got away and I miss you.' I replied, 'I gave u a hand job once in a hot tub. No need to wax nostalgic about it.'

**(719): He was all like, 'I think ur the one that got away and I miss you.' I replied, 'I gave u a hand job once in a hot tub. No need to wax nostalgic about it.'**

_"Someone’ll see—”  
"--No-one'll see..."_

Puck's mouth found his first; a sudden surge across the short expanse of foaming water and their bodies were pressed tight against one another, limbs tangling together, bubbles rushing over their skin.

Kurt floated more easily, and his knees wrapped effortlessly around Puck's hips as they kissed. Everything seemed mallowy and soft and dreamlike around them: air, water, shadows; eyes of molten green, flickering in the up-lighting. Everything except Puck, hard between Kurt's thighs. Solid. Aching for release.

His lips are bruised and swollen, and Kurt runs a nervous tongue across them as his fingernails graze tentatively at Puck's smooth, sculpted stomach. He feels Puck's hands move in symmetry, un-cupping Kurt's ass, gliding along the outside of his thighs instead, frictionless in the water but sure of their grip. Not conflicted. Knowing what he wants.

Kurt doesn't look up. He watches his own hands instead; watches them like they belong to someone else; watches as he presses the heel of his right against the bulge in Puck's swim-shorts, harder than he'd intended, alcohol blurring his judgement. Puck groans, deep in his throat, guttural, and his head falls back, whole body sliding down the plastic and closer into Kurt's touch.   
Kurt presses again-- he has a ridiculous thought about kneading bread-- then again, this time squeezing a little, and feels Puck's fingernails bite into his skin.

Breath trembling, Kurt flattens his hand, pushing it under Puck's waistband until his fingers close around the solid heat of the other boy's erection. Puck's breathing is hard now, and his hands fumble as he reaches down to tug at his swim-shorts, freeing himself and gasping at the sudden rush of water.

Kurt pulls his fist along Puck's hard length, slowly, gripping tight. It feels like an experiment. He feels anywhere but here right now, with another boy's cock in his hand; another boy's body radiating heat under his; another's boy's fingers clutching his thighs hard enough to bruise.   
But he doesn't loosen his hold, twisting his hand at the head of Puck's cock and dragging back down, heart pounding at how Puck's body bucks under his. He does it all again; and this time hears an involuntary little whimper escape his own lips as he feels Puck writhe against him, splashing water against his stomach.

Little by little, Puck falls apart under him, and Kurt has electricity prickling in his veins, burning his skin despite the chill night air and the bubbles that have long since run out. He bites his lip until he can taste blood, as Puck's thighs tremble against his, hips jerking, and Kurt's rhythm breaks as he claps a cold hand over Puck's mouth, cutting him off mid-cry.

Their breath comes hard, and broken, as the real world resolves again around them: Puck immobile and boneless; Kurt balancing in his lap, unsure what to do with the hand covered in Puck's come.  
His mind is made up for him, when Puck curls his own hand around the back of Kurt's neck, pulling him closer, and Kurt has to clutch at Puck's hip to remain upright. The other boy doesn't kiss him again, but simply holds him there, bodies pressed close, so Kurt can feel their chests heaving against each other, Puck's stubble grazing his skin, and his breath warm and shaking, caressing the cold shell of Kurt's ear.

After a long time, Puck's hard breaths become a sigh, still shaking but easier now. The hand around Kurt's nape falls, tracing the curve of his spine with a fingertip, and a shiver goes all through Kurt's body.

He can't bring himself to close his eyes, staring at the house behind them: remembering Finn's face all crumpled up with misery, and Quinn sobbing in the choir-room, and the tiny little baby in an ultrasound.

Beside his ear, Puck makes a noise, like he's going to say something. And in one swift movement, suddenly terrified, Kurt pulls his leg back over Puck's lap and climbs out of the jacuzzi.


	27. (347): He is a god among men.

**(917): When I was too drunk to walk on my own two feet, he stole a shopping cart from the grocery store at the corner and proceeded to wheel me back to my apartment. Then he tucked me in, gave me a goodnight kiss and slept on my sofa. I woke up this morning and he was making waffles.**

**(347): He is a god among men.**

"I don't normally eat waffles."

Puck kicks back in his chair, yawning hugely: "Yeah. But you can't have a hangover without waffles. It'd be like Bert without Ernie."

Kurt raises an eyebrow: "Lonely, gay and manic-depressive?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Kurt smiles wanly, taking another bite from his fork.

They eat for a little while longer in silence, Kurt just beginning to enjoy the warmth of Puck's knee pressing against his under the table before the other boy gets up and goes to refill the coffee machine. Kurt chews thoughtfully, resting his head in his hand, and watches as Puck expertly fixes them more caffeine.

"What else don't I remember?" He asks after a while, when his eyes become too heavy to appreciate Puck's oddly attractive domesticity. Sentences are still pretty hard going. He thinks today will be spent lying on the couch with a packet of Oreos watching ANTP re-runs.

If Puck wanted to join him, he would be really ok with that.

"Uh..." Puck grins, coming across and re-filling Kurt's mug with dark, silky caffeinated goodness.

"You insisted we made a Micky D’s stop at two-thirty in the morning."

" _Ugh._ " Kurt's stomach heaves at the thought, and he pushes his hands through his hair: "Why would I  _do_  that to myself?"

Puck curls his hands around his own mug: "You said something about the 'M' standing for ‘Mecca’ instead of McDonalds. Then you started giving me this lecture on Islamic history."

Kurt winces. "...I  _don't know_  anything about Islamic history."

"Yeah, that's what made it so entertaining." Puck agrees, grinning widely. "Then you ordered a McFlurry and when the dude handed it over you just looked at it for minute then screamed that it was the wrong kind and he'd 'McFucked-up’ your ice-cream."

Kurt blinks, kind of appalled.

"Am I an angry drunk? Is that what I am?"

Puck shrugs: "I think you just really wanted crunchy sprinkles." He assures him, and slouches again, reaching a hand across the table to brush his fingers briefly against the back of Kurt's knuckles. "I'm thinking of making it a thing: 'we're all totally McFucked'."

Kurt shakes his head (albeit very gently): "Don't make it a thing." He advises.

He holds his coffee mug against his lips for a while, letting the steam spiral up and warm his nose. Maybe inhaling the coffee will take effect faster than drinking it.

"You didn't have to sleep on the couch." He says suddenly, and blushes a bit when Puck's eyes flick up to meet his.

The other boy spends a long moment chewing his waffles.

"I know."

Kurt glances back at the table.

"...But for a while there I thought you might heave up on me. I figured you were safer by yourself."

Kurt sniffs a tiny laugh:

"Valid."

"I'd like to, though." Puck adds, in a gruffer voice, after a pause, and when Kurt looks up finds  _he's_  now the one examining the tabletop.

Stomach feeling oddly fuzzy (nothing to do with the hangover) Kurt reaches over and laces his fingers with Puck's, squeezing gently.

They finish breakfast like that, fingers touching. It does get a bit awkward, passing the syrup and all; but it's worth it, and by the time they're finished, Kurt (using the alcohol as a handy excuse) has almost worked up the courage to ask Puck out on their first proper date.


	28. (226): Wow, you never really realize how many muscles you have in your crotch until you pull them all.

**(226): Wow, you never really realize how many muscles you have in your crotch until you pull them all.**

"Hey..." Puck leers sleepily, smoothing his fingers through the back of Kurt's hair. "What's up kittykat?"

Kurt squints at him, stifling a yawn against the pillow:

"...What?"

Puck reaches up, and Kurt feels him adjust something on his head.

"You're wearing your cat ears."

"Oh,  _hell_..." Kurt scrunches up his nose in distaste, burying his face against Puck's chest, and feels the rumble as he chuckles.

"How're you feelin'?"

Kurt makes a pouty face, cuddling up against his boyfriend.

"Like I got fucked by an Olympic gymnast." He mumbles. Then re-considers: "Backwards." He re-considers again: " _Twice._ "

Puck laughs, but Kurt can feel him struggling to stretch his own legs out, moving with delicacy to avoid pulling aching muscles.

"Good thing it's only your birthday once a year then, huh babe?" He leers.

Kurt smiles wanly, letting his eyes flutter closed as Puck's big warm hands close around his hips, thumbs kneading firmly into the taut, tender muscles at the very base of Kurt's spine. "...Mmmm," Kurt purrs, wishing he had the energy to  _writhe_. "Otherwise I'd be in traction." He agrees hazily, shivering as Puck's mouth joins in the fun, sucking brand new hickies into Kurt's already ravished skin,

He vaguely remembers this from last night, although from a different angle, perhaps. And maybe they were kissing at the same time. There was a  _lot_  of kissing; a lot of mouths on skin; a lot of tongues in...places. And Puck's hands were...

_Wait._

"Babe, do you know what time it is?"

Interrupted mid-thought, Kurt pouts, unhappy at Puck pulling away for a reason as banal as  _timekeeping_ :

"Hammertime?" He suggests sulkily.

"Very funny."

Kurt smirks, throwing out an (aching) arm and scrabbling about the bedside table for his phone. He prises an eye open.

"...Ten past... twelve..."

"Awesome." Puck replies, shuffling back over to curl an arm around Kurt's waist and latch onto him like a koala.

But Kurt's distracted by a text alert flashing in his notification bar.

"Hey; Tina text me..."

"Happy birthday?"

"No..."

Kurt frowns as he reads: "'Don't break him, I have plans'. He tilts his head, letting Puck read over his shoulder. "Do you have any idea what she means by that?"

He feels the movement of Puck's nose against the back of his neck as he shakes his head:

"Not a clue. Though by the looks of things she should probably have warned me instead of you." He starts kissing the back of Kurt's neck again, and Kurt drops his phone back to the table, content to let Puck pull him back to bed and ride out the other boy's birthday generosity for as long as he feels like giving it.

After all, it's not like he'll be able to do any  _actual_  riding for a while.

"You know what would really help though?" Puck mutters, after some fuzzy, indiscriminate length of time.

Kurt deplores thinking right now.

"...What?"

"Hot shower."

"Hmmm..." With effort, Kurt rolls over again, facing his boyfriend and tugging the comforter all the way back up to his ears.

"Could you carry me there?" He does his pleading eyes. "I think my knees are facing the wrong way."

Puck grins, leaning over to cup Kurt's cheek and kiss him soundly.

"I'll go heat the water up, kay?"

Kurt smiles, burying his head back into his pillow as he watches Puck's fine backside disappear out the door.

He's barely closed his eyes again when he hears returning footsteps on the carpet.

Puck is back in the doorway, an odd look on his face.

Kurt levers himself up (painfully) onto his elbow:

"Baby?"

Puck jerks a thumb over his shoulder:

"Mike Chang's in our bathroom."

For a moment, Kurt's forehead creases into a frown. Then, slowly, his eyes glaze over, as fragments of last night begin to re-surface from the hazy pot smog in his brain.

"Oh..." He forces himself up to sitting, his tricep starting to complain again.

"Well now everything makes  _way_  more sense..."


	29. (801): I can get head just about anywhere nowadays so that's not much of an incentive, coffee on the other hand...

**(801): I can get head just about anywhere nowadays so that's not much of an incentive, coffee on the other hand...**

Puck's almost starting to think he's got the wrong apartment, and has halfway fumbled his phone out of his pocket to check Finn's text when he hears footsteps in the hallway and the familiar rattle of a door chain and suddenly finds himself face to face with a not hugely amused Kurt Hummel.

A not hugely  _dressed_  Kurt Hummel either, and that kinda makes Puck's tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

"Uh..."

"Puck." Kurt says, voice just a bit raspy from sleep. And probably hatred. "It's six in the morning."

Puck tries to find a response, and ends up just thrusting out one of the Starbucks cups he has straight at Kurt's chest:

"I brought coffee. I said I would."

Kurt frowns at the cup, kind of suspiciously.

"It's six in the morning." He repeats. " _Six_."

Puck shrugs. "I didn't know what time you started at. Figured you might have yoga class or singing practice, or a tea-straining meeting or some other hippie east-sider thing. Can you let me in? It's arctic out here."

For a moment, Kurt just blinks. Then, seeming to remember what's going on, he pulls the door open all the way, flattening himself against the wall to let Puck inside.

So maybe Puck brushes up against him more than he needs to. It's not a crime.

"You brought me coffee?" Kurt mentions sleepily, trying to work his hair into some kind of order with his fingers.

Puck grins. "Yeah." He passes it over, and Kurt gratefully wraps his hands around it. "Though I gotta remind you," Puck drawls "my first offer was free reign of  _this_  fine chunk of manhood and you turned it down, so, I'm totes starting to question how you keep warm on these freakin' subzero mornings—and also all the overt gayness you've been throwing around for the last seven years."

Kurt snickers, and looks really too cute with his bed-head hair all falling into his eyes.

"Well considering I hadn't even said 'no' before you started whoring your mouth out to me, maybe we both need to sit down and have a chat about some sexuality issues."

" _Dude_." Puck scrunches up his forehead, pretending offense. "It's six in the morning."

Kurt makes a face, very nearly sticking his tongue out as he wanders back towards what (Puck guesses) is the kitchenette.

"...So, I assume you at least have an address for this place?"

Puck has the job interview email safely tucked in his bag, as well as on his phone.

"Yep."

"Does is have a subway stop?"

"Uh...Essex Street?"

"Oh. Ok. We can work with that."

Puck loiters around a bit in the hallway, examining the photos Kurt has lining the walls—arty black and white shots of some of New Directions; the girls mostly, Rachel and Mercedes. Some nice set-up ones of his dad and Finn's mom and Finn. Some college friends Puck doesn't know.

"Hey." He calls through, not sure if Kurt has rules or shit about wearing shoes in the house. "Do you like your coffee?"

"What?"

"The coffee." Puck repeats, flushing a bit 'cos he doesn't want to make like it's a big deal. "I didn't know what to get you so I just guessed."

"Oh yeah it's amazing." Kurt calls back, in that blase way he has that Puck knows means he's genuine. "I may get you to do this everyday..."

~

A week later, on another icy Tuesday morning as he prepares for his first day at his new job, Puck once again shows up at Kurt's apartment with a skinny caramel macchiato. And again the week after that. And the week after that. Eventually-- Puck hopes, as they walk together to the subway huddled under one of Kurt's big fancy rainbow-striped umbrellas-- the other boy might start to catch on.


	30. (440): I love you  (720): Are you drunk?  (440): Yes but I def love you, we should get married  (720): But I'm Jewish  (440): Embrace Jesus

**(440): I love you**

**(720): Are you drunk?**

**(440): Yes but I def love you, we should get married**

**(720): But I'm Jewish**

**(440): Embrace Jesus**

The song is not slow; but they're slow-dancing to it anyway. It's that kind of night.

Also, Kurt is having trouble with standing.

"I love you."

Smiling, Puck rests his cheek against the side of Kurt's head:

"...Why?"

"Why not? You're pretty."

The corner of Puck's mouth quirks:

"That all?"

" _No..._ " Kurt says it as if Puck's stupid, shaking his head vehemently. "You're also  _hot_ ; and smarter than me at sciency stuff, and you make me laugh which is no mean feat by the way, and you have  _super_  nice hipbones, and you're really sexy naked... But that's all I think I'm gonna tells you 'cos I know what you're up to and you're just all up here fishing for compliments and I'm not  _that_  drunk that I'm going to start saying nice things about you in public..."

"Oh hells no." Puck grins, eliciting an agreeing snort from Kurt:

"You're right  _hells no_."

Chuckling, Puck kisses the side of Kurt's nose; then the very corner of his mouth. Then, as his skin starts prickling, he lets his hands slide down to the back pockets of Kurt's pants and their lips find each other's again, gifting the kind of soft, deep, tingling kisses that only seem to happen when there's been copious amounts of alcohol involved and which make the butterflies in Puck's stomach start migrating south at record pace.

"...So. What would you do if I did ask you?" Puck murmurs, pulling away a little.

"...What?"

"To marry me." Puck brushes the rim of Kurt's ear with his thumb. "Here. Now."

He lets his hands fall, lacing his fingers together at the small of Kurt's back, tugging him closer.

Kurt smirks, pupils wide in the dim lighting.

"Well." He prods a finger into Puck's chest: "I'd probably have to kill you for super-bad location choices--"

"--I know you've probably planned it out and all," Puck interrupts, feeling his own cheeks start to heat up as he fumbles to find the big silver ring his mom bought him for his sixteenth, tight around his middle finger. "Some fancy-ass place on the riverside in Paris, right? Or London. Or onstage on the set of  _Gypsy_  or something-- Do they let you do that?" He twists his ring, tugging at it, and can tell from how Kurt's body has suddenly gone entirely rigid that he's figured out what he's doing. "And I know you'd probably throw a full-on hissy fit if there were no diamonds involved--"

"--Puck--"

"-- But diamonds are freaking  _expensive_ , man--"

"-- _Puck_." Kurt curls his fingers tight in the buttonholes of Puck's shirt, staring at him. "Don't do stupid things, now."

"What stupid things?" Puck replies levelly, holding Kurt's gaze as he unhooks his arms from around him.

Kurt looks adorably terrified. "You wouldn't do this when I'm drunk. I know you wouldn't."

Grinning, unable to help himself, Puck curls his newly freed hand around Kurt's jaw, reeling him in for another kiss.

He feels Kurt's breath catch in his throat.

"You're right." He whispers against his lips.

"...W-what?"

"You're right."

Serenely, Puck slides his ring onto the middle finger of his opposite hand, lacing his fingers together once more behind Kurt's back.

For a long, long minute, Kurt just stares at him, uncomprehending. Then:

"Oh God I  _hate_  you!" He shrieks, and Puck bursts out laughing, ducking out the way as Kurt swipes for him again: "I hate you! You are an  _ass_ , Noah Puckerman! You are an  _ass_!!!"

He keeps flailing; but Puck just catches the other boy in his arms, chasing his lips with his own until Kurt's giggling too much to resist him and they collapse in a heap on the floor, limbs tangled, hearts beating madly, Puck opening and closing his fist at the weird sensation of his ring finding a new home on the opposite hand.

It's barely a promise; and fucked-up and backwards like most every other aspect of their relationship. But for now-- Puck thinks, as a little thrill races up his spine-- it's enough.

Plus, note to self: Kurt was totally down with the  _Gypsy_  thing.


End file.
